


No Name That Isn't Mine

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [15]
Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Animal Death, Apprentice Arc, Brainwashing, Captivity, Comfort Sex, Discipline, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hunting, Identity Issues, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Graphic Violence, Nudity, Pet Names, Possessive Sex, Power Dynamics, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6812386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the threats to his friends' lives, Robin remains willful and disobedient at a level that Slade finds irritating rather than charming. So, he decides to spirit Robin away to a more secure base, where he can focus on slowly, carefully, breaking down 'Robin' and recreating him as 'Apprentice'. However long that takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, none of the tags I could find seem to accurately describe what happens here, so a few quick notes. The eventual pairing is Slade/Dick, but there's none of it in the first couple chapters. There's enforced nudity in these chapters, but it's not sexual (I swear). Slade is a uh... evil son of a bitch, but not a pedophile? Also all research I could find said Dick/Robin is like 16 at this point, believe it or not. If that makes you feel better. (It made me feel better.) It's marked as 'Choose Not to Use Warnings' because honestly, I don't know what Slade might do further down the road. He hasn't done anything that terrible _yet_ , but I don't want to misrepresent in case he does later.
> 
> Anyway! This is another prompt; number 47, 'Creation'. I got reminded how hard I shipped Sladin and, well, this happened. For those of you trapped down in this pairing with me, welcome. Tags to be updated as we go because _oh boy_.

He hates the word the second Slade suggests it, hates the way it feels on his tongue when he drops to his knees — trying to _prove_ he’s not going to fight — and grinds out, “Yes, Master.”

It feels like slime in his throat, and he has to clench his hands, has to steal a glance at the threat of the screens on the wall before he can force himself not to get up and go after Slade again. Before he can make himself stay still as Slade steps forward and slides a hand through his hair, tugging enough to force him to look up. There’s no opening, and if he makes a move before there’s an opening…

His own situation be damned; he _won’t_ endanger the lives of his teammates just to protect his own pride. Not like this.

“Better,” Slade allows, voice as smooth as silk despite the crack running down his mask. Lowered again from the shouts of earlier, and the snarl of a threat he knows Slade will follow through on without a moment’s hesitation. “So you _can_ be taught. Well, that must have been a relief when your last mentor figured it out. What did he threaten you with to keep you in line, Robin? A little violence? A little _discipline?_ ”

He bares his teeth, clenches his hands a little tighter. “That’s not your business!”

Slade backhands him, and if not for the other hand in his hair he would have sprawled to the floor from the force of it. Instead his head snaps to the side, the metal of Slade’s gauntlet catching his lip and splitting it open near the corner of his mouth. He grunts in pain, sucking in a sharp breath afterwards to try and reorient himself. Which only works until Slade drags him up a half a foot from the floor by his hair, too high for him to kneel so he ends up awkwardly trying to balance with just the toes of his feet.

“Wrong again, Robin. Everything in that pretty head of yours is mine, now. You’d best get used to the idea; I _will_ be making use of all that knowledge.”

He glares, fighting not to swipe his tongue out to collect the blood he can feel beading on his lip. “I won’t betray the identities of my teammates,” he snarls, and Slade gives a low sound of amusement.

“I could not care less about your ‘friends’ secret lives, Robin. Though, I did not expect you to maintain quite as much of your attitude once I threatened to kill those you care for.” Slade tugs at his hair, but then lets go and he drops back down to his knees. “I expected you to maintain your fire, but this willful disobedience? Well, that isn’t helpful, now is it? I believe we need to break you of that habit.”

He pushes up, getting to his feet to face Slade head on. There’s still too much height in between them, but it feels better to be standing, where he can at least try and dodge if he needs to. Not that that option is a good one either, not with the axe Slade has hanging over the necks of all his friends.

“You may be able to make me obey you, Slade,” he grinds out, “but you can’t make me loyal. The _second_ you give me a chance, I’ll put you in a prison where you belong.”

Slade reaches forward, gloved hand gripping the side of his throat, thumb pressing his chin upwards. “I believe you’ll try, Robin. Now, have you already forgotten what we agreed on? Or are you asking for discipline already?”

He grits his teeth, fights not to strike at Slade. He’ll _lose_. “No, Master.”

“You’ll learn,” Slade murmurs, and then flicks his head to the side as he lets go, leaving him staring at the ground as Slade strides away. “Come with me,” is called over one armored shoulder.

He looks up at the screens one last time, and then swallows and turns to follow Slade.

* * *

The drugs are the first clue that things are about to change. When he starts to get dizzy — after a mockery of a dinner where Slade sits just to his left and makes small, cutting comments he struggles to ignore — breath becoming labored as the world spins a bit, he immediately knows something is wrong.

“Easy,” Slade says, as he slumps back against the chair, his head falling back. A gloved hand cups the back of his skull, bringing his head back up as Slade moves closer. “Just a necessary precaution, Robin. Give in; you have my word nothing will happen to you while you rest.”

“Your word’s—” He has to stop, gasp in a breath, clench his hands against the chair to try and stay stable. “ _Useless_ ,” he finishes, in a breathless snarl.

Slade pulls him over, and he’s helpless to resist as he’s lifted and gathered in against that armored chest. For just a moment, it feels all too familiar, and the chest he’s pressed against could just as easily be black and broader, head resting near the emblazoned bat instead of the mix of orange and black.

Slade’s moving, carrying him somewhere, and weakly, he manages to protest, “No. Slade, no.”

“Sleep,” Slade orders, and deep in his gut he hates that the rich, smooth voice isn’t all that different from his real mentor’s, absent the growl. “We can begin when you’ve woken, Apprentice.”

His eyes slide closed without his permission, and he can only cling to the sound of footsteps and the rush of his own breath for so long before the darkness sucks him under.

It feels like only a moment before he’s waking again, having to claw his way out of the clinging strands of sleep as hard as he fought to stay out of it in the first place. He manages to drag his eyes open, staring at dull grey concrete for a minute or two before he can get the strength to pull his arms underneath him and start to push up. His limbs don’t want to cooperate, but he breathes through the lingering weakness and forces himself up to his knees before looking around.

It’s a small, square room that looks more like a cell than anything else. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all the same flat grey of concrete, the single door what looks like iron with two panels that look like they slide open, one about a foot from the ground and the other near the average height of an adult’s eyes. There’s a small cot in one corner, flat on the floor with a simple white set of sheets, and a bucket in the opposite one that he instantly hates the apparent purpose of.

He’s still dressed in Slade’s idea of a costume, and a quick pass over his limbs with his hands doesn’t reveal anything that’s oddly sore or feels wrong. Maybe, Slade might actually have been telling the truth.

Clearly they’ve moved, or at least he’s been put in a room in Slade’s complex that he’s never been in before, but nothing else seems to be different.

Which is of course when the door opens — there’s a _heavy_ sounding clunk that must be the lock — and Slade steps inside. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling over but rebalancing and clenching his hands, glaring up at his captor. The door is still open, but Slade’s in the way of it and he doesn’t like his chances of escaping right at this moment.

“Awake at last,” Slade drawls. “Welcome to your new home, Apprentice. It’s a bit bare, I know, but if you’re good we can see about upgrading it with a few more rudimentary comforts.”

He bares his teeth, refusing to look away from Slade. “You think you can demoralize me with a _room?_ ”

He gets the impression Slade is smiling, further confirmed by the soft, satisfied noise that the older man makes. “You’d be surprised what a room can do, but no, not really. We’re here to lay out a few ground rules for your stay here; are you prepared to listen?”

He doesn’t answer, and Slade steps forward and grabs a handful of his hair, wrenching his head up a few inches. He grits his teeth, and _doesn’t_ lash out like he wants to. Instead he snarls, unwilling to back down even though he knows it’s the smart move. It’s probably the _right_ move, but Slade is just… _God_ , he’s never wanted to hurt someone as much as Slade.

“I’ll take that as a yes then. First rule, you will do whatever I order you to, and answer any questions I ask you as honestly as you’re capable of. If you hesitate, if you disobey, if you fight me, you will be punished. If you are good, you will be rewarded.” He bites his tongue not to snap at that, as Slade releases his hair. “Second, disregard your friends. They will not save you, and they are no longer of any concern to you.”

“You’ve got their lives in your hand!” is what bursts out. “How can you expect me to forget them when every time I _breathe_ you’re threatening to kill them?!”

“Which brings us to rule three,” Slade continues, as if he didn’t even speak. “If you manage to leave this place, or to send any sort of message to alert them, your friends will die. However, anything else you do will not fall on them. You are allowed to fight me, Apprentice; in fact I expect you to, until you are taught to know better. You will be punished for it, but your friends’ lives will not be the cost. Is that clear?”

He stares, and then Slade is moving and pure reaction isn’t enough to get him out of the way. Slade’s fist slams into his face and he feels the sick shift and crunch of his nose breaking as he reels backwards, gasping in pain. One of his hands rises to cradle his face, but he forces himself to look up and keep Slade in his sights.

Slade settles back, standing tall and calm once again. “I asked you a question, Apprentice. Am I clear?”

He swallows, feeling the blood start to trickle down beneath his hand. “Yes,” he manages.

Slade snaps into movement again, one step forward and pivoting and he tries to jump back but Slade’s legs are longer than he realized and a foot slams into the center of his chest, flinging him backwards. He crashes into the wall, the breath knocked right out of him and he _tries_ to get it back as Slade strides forward, grabbing him by the throat and pinning his head back against the concrete.

“What am I to you?” Slade demands, fingers digging in enough to make his already hard-won breath catch.

“Master,” he gasps. “Yes, _Master_.”

Slade holds him for a moment longer, and then lets go. “Progress already,” he mocks. “Now strip down, boy.”

He stiffens. “ _What?_ ”

This punch hits his gut, and he doubles over, gagging until Slade grabs his throat and slams him into the wall again. He’s struggling to breathe, eyes squeezing shut for a moment so he can try and gather himself. It doesn’t really work.

“Strip down,” Slade repeats, voice a lower hiss. “You don’t have the right to question me.”

He shudders, shakes his head in silent refusal as he grabs at Slade’s arm with his hands. He can see Slade’s single eye narrow, feel the fingers on his throat tighten. Slade drags him up the wall until he’s hanging in the air, feet kicking uselessly as he tries to lift himself a few inches on Slade’s arm to keep some of the pressure off his throat.

“Let me tell you how this is going to go, boy. I’m going to let you go, you’re going to strip all of your armor and clothing off, and then I’m going to punish you for this refusal. If you don’t, then I will tear it off of you myself, before we get to a much _worse_ punishment. Either way, I will get the outcome I want. Do you understand?”

Slade drops him, and his knees almost buckle underneath him as he hits the floor, having to press back against the wall to keep his footing. He has to drag in a rough lungful of air before he can gasp, “Yes, Master.”

“Good.” Slade’s hand snaps out, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward, towards the center of the room. “Now, you won’t be needing _this_ anymore.”

One of Slade’s hands grabs his hair, pulling his head back, and the other goes for his face. He realizes the target a moment too late to stop Slade from hooking fingers underneath the edge of his mask and peeling it off his face.

“ _No_ ,” he gasps, trying to twist away, trying to close his eyes to preserve some tiny bit of his anonymity.

Slade lets go, and he can hear the slight sound of his mask hitting the floor. “Relax, I may know your name but I have as little interest in your identity as those of your teammates’. Now, have you made your decision, boy?”

He opens his eyes, raising his gaze to Slade’s. There’s a knot in his stomach, a sick twist that he wishes he could attribute to the punch. What does it really matter? His face is bare, Slade already _knows_. What difference does more skin make, apart from whatever satisfaction he can get out of being stubborn, before Slade makes him pay for it? Is that worth it? Shouldn’t he save his strength for whenever Slade gives him a real chance?

His breath catches, and he jerks his gaze away from Slade’s and brings his hands together, slowly working the catches to the metal vambraces open. It’s awkward, still unnatural because this costume works differently than his Robin one and he hasn’t adjusted yet. He doesn’t know it as well. It takes a bit of work to get the vambraces off, and he grits his teeth — which makes his nose throb — when he drops them to the ground to his right and they clang against the ground.

His belt is next, despite how uncomfortable it makes him to give up pretty much his only source of weaponry. Slade watches impassively as he removes the pieces of metal from the costume, stripping it down to just the reinforced undersuit. Then, when he reaches to pull off the gloves, Slade moves. He freezes up for a moment, but Slade doesn’t reach out to touch him, just slowly starts to circle around like he’s being examined. He swallows, disliking the feeling, but continues to strip the undersuit off.

“Without this,” Slade starts, as he reaches back and starts to pull the zipper down the line of his spine, “you’re nothing. Not Robin—” Slade’s fingers brush the back of his neck, and he flinches “—not _Dick Grayson_ , not my apprentice. You haven’t earned the right to an identity yet, and until you behave, you won’t.”

His hands are frozen where they’ve peeled the suit off his back and to his shoulders, fingers curling tight into the stiff fabric. “You— That’s not how life _works_. You can’t—”

Slade cuffs the back of his head hard enough to make him stumble forward, and then grabs the back of his neck in steel fingers and drags him back again. “When you can be trusted to obey, boy, then you can have a name again. That is how _your_ life works, from now on. You will earn everything you receive, or you will go without. You are not entitled to _anything_ ; you are simply mine, and how I choose to treat you relies entirely on how you behave. I imagine you’ll learn the ropes soon enough, pet. You’ve proven adaptable before.”

He swallows, the idea clicking into place that this is really happening. That this is… This isn’t a joke. Not that he thought it was a joke, but he didn’t… He expected torture, maybe, or the same kind of enforced obedience under the threat of death to his friends. Not being stripped of his clothes and his name, and being offered the _choice_ to obey. This isn’t…

His breath is coming sharp, too sharp and distantly he knows that. He’s had enough training to recognize when he’s messing up.

Slade’s fingers squeeze the back of his neck and then let go, lowering to rest over the bare skin of his right shoulder. “Accept it,” Slade murmurs. “I know it’s difficult, but you’ll feel better when you submit to your new role, pet. To me.”

He snaps.

He’s whipping around, lashing out before he can think it through and releasing a cry of wordless rage from the feeling exploding in his chest. Slade steps back, out of range as his fist whistles past, and then retaliates by jabbing rigid fingers into his exposed side, making him fold in on the sharp burst of pain. He gasps, before Slade is grabbing him by the front of his suit, wrenching him forward and then _flinging_ him back. He flies through the air, hits the ground hard on his back and skids along the concrete until he comes to a stop partially on his side, all the way across the room.

He forces his head up, pulls himself in and struggles to push himself up as Slade starts to cross the room, each step slow and measured. He glances around for something, _anything_ , and realizes that Slade’s flung him partially into the open doorway. He doesn’t take the time to think about it, knows he _can’t_ , before he’s scrambling up and back through the door, reaching forward to grab the door.

Slade’s eye narrows, and he snaps, “You’ll _suffer_ for it, boy.”

Somewhere, he finds the voice to spit back, “Not if you’re locked in here!”

He drags the door closed, slamming it shut and then quickly finding the handle for the lock and wrenching at it until it falls into place with that same heavy clunk. Then he runs, not waiting to see if Slade will actually be stuck in his own cell.

The cell is one in a corridor of several, and he makes a break for the exit to the corridor, slamming through the door and just _moving_. He has too much respect for Slade’s skills to think that one heavy door is going to contain him, and the need to run, to get _away_ , overrides all other thought. The corridors all look the same; dull grey concrete with doors that vary between steel and wood, some of them with small plaques next to them that he doesn’t risk slowing down enough to read. He hits three dead ends, and starts to panic, before he runs into a corridor that’s wider than the rest.

There’s a door at the end of it, circular and imposing with a wheel handle, and he sprints to it. He grabs the handle, struggles to turn it and manages that much, feeling it start to give under his desperate strength. He can hear the grinding of whatever mechanisms are there coming loose, and when he pulls it actually starts to come open. He can see light from the crack, shifts enough to catch a glimpse of nearly blindingly white snow.

Then static _screams_ in his ears, and he shouts and jerks back, hands going to his ears as he trips, falls, hits the ground on his back.

 _“Didn’t remember you were wearing these, did you, boy?”_ Slade’s voice says in his ears, still sounding calm and amused.

He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and his chest heaving as he tries to breathe, tries to recover from the disorientation of that noise in his ears.

 _“Now, you haven’t forgotten our arrangement, have you? What did I say would happen if you left?”_ He squeezes his eyes shut, remembers Slade’s promise and bites his tongue not to curse, not to just curl into a ball and scream at the _frustration_ of having his freedom so close. _“That’s right. Now, get up and close the door, boy. Take one step outside, and all your friends will die in agony. I’m sure you don’t want to be responsible for that.”_

He forces himself up, bows his head for a moment while he’s sitting just to shake, though whether it’s in fear or fury or pain he doesn’t know. Then he gets to his feet, refuses to look at that open crack when he pushes the door shut and turns the wheel until it won’t go any further, until the door’s locked again.

Then there’s a hand gripping the back of his neck, and he jerks and yelps in surprise when it shoves him forward against the door. He flails a bit, but the way that hand squeezes is unmistakably Slade and he freezes in place, pressing his hands against the metal of the door.

“That was good,” Slade murmurs, easing the grip on his neck. “We can work up to teaching you true obedience, now that I know you’re capable of it. However, it looks like we’ll have to start out with the discipline you’ve earned, to stop you from trying to pull a trick like that again. Firstly, you have a job to finish, pet. The rest of your clothes, _now_. Trust me when I say that you don’t want to add to what punishment you’re already due.”

Haltingly, he lifts his hands and pulls at the suit. He keeps his forehead against the metal as a grounding point, closing his eyes as he drags the suit off of his arms and then pushes it down off of his hips. He shudders when he presses his hands against the door, pinning the suit beneath one foot to pull his other free, and then repeating the process until he can kick it aside. He’s trembling, but he’s not sure whether it’s being exposed, _naked_ in too many ways, in front of Slade, or simply because it’s cold in the corridor. He doesn’t know how to figure that out.

Slade lets him stand there for several long moments, and then slowly pulls him back from the door. He doesn’t have any choice but to go, even as Slade uses the grip on the back of his neck to turn and steer him back down the corridor.

“We’re going to go take care of the issue of your punishment,” Slade tells him, staying conversational. “Then, if you take it well enough, we can see about getting around to teaching you what your new life will entail. Do you think you can take your punishment without struggling, pet?”

He shivers, staring at the ground but managing to get out, “No, Master.”

Slade’s hand squeezes his neck again, almost like it’s supposed to be a comfort. “You’ll learn, pet. I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So uh, welcome back to _this thing_. This monstrosity of a creation. Haha, I can only say that I hope you enjoy it (because I definitely enjoyed writing it).

It’s impossible to keep track of time, is the first thing he figures out. Whatever kind of bunker Slade is keeping him in, there aren’t any windows, and no clocks as far as he can find — except the stopwatches Slade uses to time him sometimes. Everything is grey concrete and steel, muted colors and silence and the only thing that breaks all of it up is Slade. Sometimes it feels like Slade’s visits are days apart, and sometimes it feels more like mere hours. The meals are similarly spaced out, sometimes long enough between that his stomach aches with hunger, and others so close to each other that he isn’t even hungry, though he quickly figures out that if he shuns a meal, the next won’t come until he’s nearly ready to plead for it.

It’s all bland, nearly tasteless stuff, but it keeps him alive and he’s not stupid enough to complain about that. He’s almost positive if he complained, he wouldn’t get fed at all. At least not until Slade had the satisfaction of making him beg for it, however long that took.

Things can always get worse, is the second thing he figures out.

If he’s not in his cell then Slade is by his side, guiding him between rooms with a hand at the back of his neck or his shoulder, voice nearly always calm and collected, more than often amused. He learns to fear the times when Slade’s voice rises, learns to shy away because that means anger, and anger means violence. Not the systematic, precise violence of ‘discipline’ — when that just means pain, and he prefers the pain to the humiliation — but outbursts of it if that anger is aimed his direction, or he’s in the way.

Slade breaks his left wrist, two ribs, and three fingers before he learns that lesson. Two more ribs before he learns how to slip into the sort of complete surrender that will stay Slade’s hand.

At first, Slade only puts him through drills. One after another until his muscles burn and he can barely stand, before feeding him — most of the time he’s too worn out to even care that Slade makes him eat off a plate on the floor instead of a table — and then leading him back to his cell. More times than he’s comfortable with, his legs give out under him and Slade ends up carrying him back, leaving him on the cot with a parting drift of fingers through his hair and a murmured word or two about how well he’s done that day. Or how badly.

After a period of time he can’t name and isn’t comfortable thinking about, Slade starts sparring with him sometimes. It’s painful, taxing, but it stirs a kind of joy in his chest to be fighting again, even if it’s at such a disadvantage and he always loses. In a way, the spars become bright points in the haze of pain, exhaustion, and fear his life has become. Slade will point out his flaws, correct his form, but never criticize him unless he’s done something genuinely stupid. And the ruffles of his hair, the touches to his jaw and the murmured praise whenever he pulls off something impressive or lands a solid hit, those…

He can’t bring himself to hate how good those make him feel.

His anger slips from his grasp, temper unable to survive the pain it brings whenever he lets it show. He buries it, surrenders to Slade’s demands and accepts the relatively gentle backhands as simple reminders of his place when he makes mistakes. He’ll take those backhands over true discipline any day, and he _tries_ to take those reminders to heart and watch himself to make sure whatever he’s done wrong doesn’t happen again.

But the silence, when Slade isn’t there, eats at him. It _eats_ at him and he doesn’t know how to combat the loneliness that slowly sinks into his bones. Doesn’t know any way to fix it but to speak one day, at the end of Slade’s training session while the older man is putting away the wooden staves they were using.

“Master?” he dares to ask, and Slade puts the staves up on the hooks they’re stored on before turning to him.

“Yes, boy?” Slade says, not showing any irritation at his bravery, which makes it easier.

He swallows, struggles to hold his ground because as usual, his legs feel one step from collapsing underneath him, and he’s coated in sweat. “Can I stay, Master?” His voice comes out quiet, almost a plea.

Slade approaches, single eye narrowed behind that ever-present mask, and he almost drops to his knees in automatic reaction to that look. “What do you mean?” Slade asks, once he’s standing in front of him.

It takes another swallow to force himself to speak, to remind himself that now it’s not a plea, he’s been asked a _question_ and that means he has to answer. “I want to stay up here with you, Master. Please? Not— Not forever, but can I just— just today?”

Slade reaches out, tilting his head up with fingers under his chin, still studying him. “Tell me why you want that, pet.”

He bites his lip, tries to form the thoughts in his head into cohesive sentences and fails. “Silence,” he ends up blurting, and then wincing. “I— I would rather be up here than down there, Master, please. It’s so quiet down there, I’m _alone_ and I— Please let me stay. _Please_.”

Slade gives a quiet chuckle, and he relaxes a little at the sound. Slade’s laughs have different sounds, and this one is safe. “Are you lonely, my pet?”

“Yes, Master,” he answers, pairing it with a nod small enough that it won’t dislodge Slade’s hand.

The hand under his chin slides around to run through his hair, and then to lightly grip the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and surrenders to the touch, dipping his head a little bit. “As you wish, my boy. Come on, let’s get you washed off, and then you can stay with me while I work.”

“Thank you, Master,” he immediately says, opening his eyes and managing to dredge up half a smile because Slade insists he be polite.

Slade leans down, wordlessly gathering him into powerful arms, and he closes his eyes again and relaxes into Slade’s chest, grateful for the chance to rest and give his legs a break. He almost drifts to sleep while Slade is carrying him, before coming awake when Slade jostles him a little bit. He cooperates as best he can with Slade easing him to stand on his own feet, even if his legs shake a little bit at the renewed strain.

He’s in a bathroom, a _real_ bathroom, with tile beneath his feet and a walk-in shower in front of him. He hesitates, stays still as Slade moves forward to turn on the water and tugs a glove off to test the temperature. He almost wishes that he’d kept his eyes open on the walk over, because he’s not certain where he is.

He takes a moment to look around, to register the neat line of shaving products and soap beside the sink that’s behind him, the large towels hanging on the wall, the toilet with its lid still up. Slowly, he comes to the realization that this is _Slade’s_ bathroom, in whatever portion of the bunker his master actually lives in. He’s never been here.

“Boy.”

He jerks a bit, whipping his head back around to look at Slade, who’s stepped back out of the shower. Slade motions him forward, and when he obeys Slade’s wet hand presses between his shoulder blades, guiding him over the slightly raised ledge and into the spray. He expects it to be cold — every time Slade’s washed him off, it’s been with cold water — but when it washes over his shoulders it’s almost hot instead.

He lifts his head, shoulders easing down as he tilts his face into the spray and just stands there. It feels so _good_ that he finds himself smiling, _really_ smiling, as he leans into the water.

Eventually Slade coughs, and he startles again. He opens his eyes, looking over to find Slade leaning against the counter of the sink, watching him. For the first time in a while, the fact he’s not wearing anything embarrasses him. He ducks his head, reluctantly stepping back so he’s out of the spray of water. He immediately feels too cold, and can’t help shivering a little bit. He _wants_ to step right back under the spray, but Slade clearly thinks he’s taking too long, and he only really needed to rinse off.

He starts to move out of the shower, and Slade shakes his head, making him freeze up in place, unsure what’s wanted from him. Slade nods towards the spray, arms crossed but it doesn’t really look threatening, just casual.

“Go on, pet. Get clean; enjoy it.” Slade’s voice might be low, but it’s clearly a command.

He dips his head in obedience, stepping back under the spray before he takes an actual look at the recessed shelf in front of him and the bottles on it. When he reaches for the one labeled as shampoo, he takes a glance over at Slade to make sure it’s alright before he touches it. When there’s no warning sound, or narrowed eye, he cautiously picks it up. Still nothing, and he relaxes and squeezes some of it into his other hand.

Working it into his hair is like heaven, even though he ends up having to go back for more since what he has isn’t enough to spread through everything. His hair is longer now, and he doesn’t like to think about that too much because that brings up troubling questions about how long he’s been here. Questions he doesn’t really want to know the answers to. He tries not to think about anything that doesn’t focus on the present, because if he did he’s pretty sure he would have gone insane a long time ago.

There are a lot of things he’s sacrificed for the sake of survival and his own sanity. Pride, dignity, loyalty, shame… Any name that isn’t ‘boy,’ or ‘pet,’ or whatever else Slade feels like calling him in a day.

He washes the shampoo out, goes back for conditioner and then soap, while it sits. The scent, something vaguely minty, smells sharp and almost overpowering to his senses, and he tries not to breathe too deeply while he’s holding it. He sets to work washing all of it off afterwards, and _god_ the way he feels actually, really, _clean_ brings a small smile to his face.

“How long do you want to stay under the water, pet?” Slade asks,

He turns his head to look at Slade, searching for any sign of disapproval as he considers his words. Then, just honestly answering, “Until it gets cold.”

Slade laughs, shakes his head. “Well, I’m not going to give you that long.” Slade pushes off the counter, straightening up and announcing, “I’ll be right back, pet. When I am, you’ll get out of there. Clear?”

He nods. “Yes, Master.”

He watches Slade leave the room, and then turns back to the water and steps more fully underneath it. He runs his fingers through his hair just to feel it, relaxing under the spray until he wants to just lie down on the tile beneath it and rest there. He almost does, before he hears the tap of boots against the tile and looks up to see Slade walking back in.

It’s still reluctant, but he reaches forward to the knob and turns the water off. The cold hits him and he shivers, before Slade is clicking his tongue and beckoning him out.

“Come on, boy,” Slade orders, pulling one of the towels from the wall.

He steps out of the shower, and Slade wraps the towel around his shoulders. He closes his eyes, stands still as Slade starts to dry him off, ruffling his hair and then moving down to get the rest of him. He tries not to flush, but is pretty sure he fails, when the towel moves down between his legs. Luckily that only lasts a couple moments, and then there’s a rough drag down each of his legs, and then it returns to work at his hair a little more.

“This is getting long,” Slade comments, as the towel gets discarded and a hand replaces it, fingers combing through his damp hair. “We’ll have to cut it soon enough.” It’s not a question so he doesn’t offer his opinion, just lets Slade lead him over to the sink and press a packaged toothbrush and half-used tube of paste into his hand. He follows the silent order, as Slade stands at his back, doing something with his hair. It takes him a couple seconds, and a glance in the mirror above the sink, to realize that Slade is looping his hair up into a messy half of a bun, contained by one hairband.

The taste of the toothpaste is as overpowering as the soap was, and he winces at the drag of the brush against his gums. Slade’s been letting him brush his teeth, but not with toothpaste and not for as long as he should have, so it’s a little painful. Nothing compared to what he’s already been through though.

“You’ve grown,” Slade continues, one hand lightly gripping his shoulder. “Take a look, pet. You’ve gained a few inches since we met. Filled out too; not so thin anymore.”

He looks up, and realizes as he straightens up that Slade is right. He doesn’t look absolutely tiny anymore in comparison to Slade’s bulk, not with the extra muscle on his frame and his added height. He’s still smaller, and he doubts he’ll ever tower as tall as Slade, but he doesn’t look like a child anymore. There’s a sharpness to his face he doesn’t remember from before, a length to his limbs that’s unfamiliar now that he’s looking at it, and he’s never been this defined before. Exhausting, yes, but clearly Slade’s brand of training is working, at least physically.

He leans down to spit out the toothpaste and rinse his mouth clean before straightening back up. “Woah,” he murmurs, raising a hand to trace over the new lines of his jaw.

Slade lets him look for about a minute, and then squeezes his shoulder and pulls him away from the mirror. He goes without complaint, and Slade leads him out into what’s clearly a bedroom. What’s clearly _Slade’s_ bedroom. The bed is made with a military sort of precision, everything in the room just in its place, and up above the head of the bed there are two mounted, crossed swords that still look dangerously sharp. Slade leads him to the center of the room before letting go, and he takes the hint and stands still as Slade circles around the bed.

The older man gets onto the bed, back against the headboard as he retrieves a laptop from the end table just to his right and sets it in his lap, flicking it open. The snap of fingers, and the point of them down towards Slade’s left side, is enough order for him. He heads forward, trying to ignore the ache in his muscles as he slips onto the bed and, guessing without any further hints, lies down at Slade’s side. His head is near Slade’s hip, body stretched out along the length of Slade’s leg and past it. He closes his eyes, presses his face against Slade’s armor, and then something warm and soft is settling over him. He pulls his head up, catches sight of a black blanket spread over him, and most of Slade’s legs, before his head is pushed back down by strong fingers.

“Relax,” Slade orders. “I’m going to work, and you may stay as long as you keep yourself still and mostly silent. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” he answers automatically, and then pauses before adding, “May I ask one question, Master?”

Slade grunts, tugs a little bit at his hair in what’s probably supposed to be warning, but nods. “Go ahead, pet.”

The words don’t come easily, and they’re not really _smart_ , but he says them anyway. “Master, this is a lot of rewards in one day. Did I do something right?”

Slade looks down at him, and then slides gentle fingers over his scalp. “You asked to stay, pet.”

It’s a simple answer, and for a moment all he can answer with is a soft, “Oh.” Then, he manages to turn his head to look a bit more fully up at Slade. “I’d like to stay more often, if that’s alright, Master?”

“Fishing for more rewards?” Slade teases, and even though it doesn’t sound serious, he still shakes his head.

“I don’t like to be alone,” he admits.

Slade’s fingers pause, and then stroke through his hair, down towards his ear and then his neck. “We’ll see, pet. If you behave, I don’t see a reason why you can’t spend more time up here.”

He sighs in relief, tilting his head into Slade’s hip and rubbing it against the armor a little bit. “Thank you, Master.”

* * *

He doesn’t have to ask for it the next time, or after that. It becomes fairly regular for him to lie next to Slade as the older man works, fingers occasionally combing through his hair or stroking down along his neck and shoulders. Usually until he falls asleep, slipping in and out of consciousness, curled in against Slade’s leg.

He stays still as Slade cuts his hair back down to shorter lengths, and the lack of it against his neck feels strange after so long, makes his head feel lighter. Slade takes to trimming his hair every once in awhile, and he learns to stay still, to let Slade turn his head wherever it’s wanted, to stay just where Slade puts him until he’s pulled somewhere else. The face that looks back at him from Slade’s mirror is almost familiar now, instead of the near stranger that he saw when he first looked.

He gains another inch, gets used to the feeling of Slade standing behind him, of hands on his shoulders and the squeeze of fingers against the back of his neck when he’s done a good job. He _lives_ for those moments, for the times when Slade leans down and whispers in his ear how well he’s done, how _good_ he’s been. There’s a dull ache in his chest that he can barely even remember the cause of, and that firm, sincere praise helps to ease it.

Every word of praise makes him feel like he’s done something right, like he’s cared for. It almost frightens him how easy it is for him to want more of it, but he shoves those thoughts down like everything else that no longer fits into his world.

_Slade_ is the only part of his life that makes sense anymore. The only source of… of _anything_ that isn’t silence and a small square room of concrete. He can’t afford to jeopardize that.

Eventually, one day, Slade guides him to sit on the bed instead of lying down. He follows the guide of fingers that tilt his head up, raising his gaze to meet Slade’s as the older man stands in front of him. He doesn’t move when Slade slides fingers back into his hair, brushing it back from his eyes.

“Do you know how long you’ve been here, pet?” Slade asks, voice almost uncharacteristically soft. It unnerves him a little bit.

He swallows, curls his fingers into the blanket beneath them. “No, Master,” he answers, and then adds on, “I— I try not to think about it.”

He can guess at the time it would have taken his hair to grow, or his broken bones to heal, or how long it must have been for him to have grown the inches he has, but he doesn’t want to. He’s not sure he wants to relate all of this to time, to make it _real_. If he makes this real…

Slade watches him for a moment, and then tells him, “A year. It’s been a year.”

Something in his chest cracks, and he sucks in a sharp breath, staring up at Slade’s mask, at the single eye staring down at him. He grips the blankets tighter, trying to reconcile the thought of… of a _year_. A year trapped inside concrete walls, under the touch of gloved hands and with only a voice that he’s learned to read as well as an actual expression to break up the silence and the solitude. A _year_.

He snaps to attention when Slade’s other hand rises to that black and orange mask, fingers pressing into hidden catches and there’s a soft hiss as it comes loose. He stares as the mask falls away, tracks it as it gets tossed to the bed at his side and then raises his gaze back up to Slade. To his _face_.

Short white hair and a white, carefully trimmed beard. A face that he’d probably guess at late thirties or early forties, with an eyepatch crossing over it and covering where Slade’s right eye would have been. That single blue eye, now paired with the rest of a face, looks down at him, studying his reaction. He just stares, until Slade cups his jaw and speaks, soft and low.

“My name is Slade Wilson. As a mercenary, I go by the name Deathstroke.”

Distantly, he can register the feeling of his world cracking around him. He takes in a shaky breath, stares up at a real _face_ and feels his shoulders start to shake as well.

“Your… Your name is Slade,” he breathes. “You— God, it’s your _name_.”

_“Who is Slade?!”_ rebounds in his head, circling around in the angry voice of a child he can barely relate to anymore. He shudders, looking at that white hair, the blue eye, the sharp jaw and the actual _shape_ of a mouth that’s been speaking, whispering, praising, and criticizing him for… _God_ , for a year.

He gasps in a breath, helpless under the gaze of that eye, and feels the burn of tears in his eyes. At his own _stupidity_ , for never realizing that ‘Slade’ was more than just some alias. At the fact that it was literally right in front of his face and he never even considered it. At the fact that Slade literally _told them his name_ and he was still so hopelessly ignorant that he didn’t see it.

Slade lets go of his jaw, and before he understands the movement the older man is sitting down next to him, gathering him in against a broad chest and cradling his head against one armored shoulder. He trembles, releasing the low, helpless sound of pain as Slade — _Slade_ — holds him, head turning down against his and real lips pressing to the top of his head.

“It’s alright,” Slade murmurs, holding him a bit tighter and shifting them backwards onto the bed itself. “Let it go, boy. What’s already happened is done with; I don’t hold you responsible for the failures of your past.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as Slade pulls them both down to lie against the bed, and goes willingly when he’s pulled into the older man’s chest, tears slipping from his eyes as pain swells to the front of his mind. He curls his fingers against the reinforced fabric of Slade’s armor, can’t get a grip but it doesn’t really matter when he buries his head beneath Slade’s chin and just _shakes_.

Slade’s fingers stroke through his hair, the other arm holding him tight, flat against his back. “That’s it,” Slade whispers, against the top of his head. “That’s my good boy. Just let it all bleed out, pet. I’m here; I have you.”

He shakes harder, gasps in a breath that catches hard, and then _screams_ into Slade’s chest.

* * *

When he wakes, alone in Slade’s bed and feeling hollow and drained, there’s a pile of neatly folded orange and black clothing beside him.

He looks at it for a moment, reaches out and touches it to make sure he’s not dreaming. It’s soft, almost more like pajamas or some kind of workout clothing than anything substantial, even if it’s patterned like Slade’s uniform. It smells like laundry detergent, freshly clean and neutral, with none of Slade’s scent clinging to it, nor anyone else’s.

He holds it long enough to make sure it’s not going to vanish between his fingers like plumes of smoke, and then slips it on. And when Slade reappears, when he sees the glint of pride in that blue eye and the obvious satisfaction, it feels right.

When Slade presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, gathers him into a loose embrace, and whispers, “That’s my boy,” the warmth in his chest is foreign and familiar all at the same time. The graze of a hand down the length of his spine comes with the murmur of, “Welcome back, Apprentice; you’ve earned it,” and he presses himself harder against Slade.

“Thank you,” he whispers back, against the curve of Slade’s neck and shoulder. “ _Thank you_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the story of pain, and brainwashing, and general unpleasantness! Now with actual sexual content! (Though not yet Sladin. No worries; we'll get there.) Enjoy!

Things get easier. Slade's training isn't any less brutal than it was, but he can handle more of it. He's stronger, tougher, a better combatant than he ever was before Slade took him in. What mistakes he makes still get him disciplined, but that's fine. He deserves it.

Slade's only trying to make him better, and he knows that. He does his very best never to disobey, which earns him a lack of punishment, and he comes to know the difference between discipline and punishment intimately. When he's bad, when he actively and purposefully steps out of line, he's punished. It's painful, humiliating, and he'll beg forgiveness before Slade lets the matter be done. When he makes mistakes, then he's disciplined to ensure that he remembers not to do it again, and that's painful too but it's shorter, he's not expected to seek forgiveness but to understand what he did wrong. Discipline is nothing more than a reminder; it's just another form of teaching.

He's earned himself a name now, he has an identity again and that feels… It feels _so_ good. He is Slade's apprentice, and Slade is his master. Will always be his master.

As he embraces that role, Slade teaches him more things. New forms of martial arts and combat styles, the proper way to handle a knife, ways to use his talent for acrobatics that turn it into a dance of blades, where any angle is one he can strike at. His time in the cell is less now. Slade will sometimes leave him to practice on his own, instead of locking him away, when his master has something else to do, and he still spends most evenings — he assumes they're evenings — stretched out beside Slade's leg on his bed. Sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he just listens to the tap of the laptop's keys and relaxes, happy just to be by his master instead of alone and in silence.

Slade's almost kind, now that he knows how to interact with him. He deserves what he earns, and it's as simple as that. Pain, when he's done badly; praise, when he's done well. He earned the uniform that he dons every morning, he _earned_ the books that keep him company when he's alone, and he _earned_ the privilege of the removal of Slade's mask. He's done well.

Eventually, a morning comes where they're sparring, dancing in circles around wooden staves. It's familiar, he _knows_ Slade's styles, and suddenly there's an opening. He doesn't think, he just takes it, moves in, and his staff _cracks_ across Slade's face with every ounce of force he can manage. Slade hits the ground, staff rolling away across the mats, and he chases victory and knocks his master to his back, pressing the end of his staff beneath Slade's chin and forcing it up and back.

There's a moment of stillness, a moment of Slade drawing in a shallow breath as blood beads from a split at the corner of his mouth, before that single blue eye focuses on him again. Slade raises a hand, presses it against the side of his staff but doesn't push it away. He stays still, holding the staff there, coiled to drive it down, to move as soon as he needs to. Just because Slade's on the ground doesn't mean he's the victor. If he lets his guard down for an instant, if he assumes that he's won, he'll be caught unawares and finished off. He's made that mistake before.

"Enough."

He draws away, letting his staff rest at his side, and as Slade touches a gloved hand to the split in his lip and gets to his feet, it hits him that he _won_. He actually, legitimately, _won_. Slade looks down at the shine of blood, gives a little hum of thought, and then lowers his hand and steps forward. He stays obediently still as Slade traces fingers over his cheek, brushing a bit of his hair back and then tilting his chin up with two fingers. He holds Slade's gaze easily enough.

"That was very well done, Apprentice," Slade murmurs, and pride blooms in his chest.

"Thank you, Master," he answers dutifully, through the smile curving his mouth.

Slade squeezes his shoulder for a moment, then orders, "Put those away; this proves you're ready for better things."

He obeys, moving to gather Slade's staff from the ground and then stride across the training room to put them back up on their spots on the wall. "Better things, Master?" he asks, as he turns back around. Slade is kneeling in front of a chest near one corner of the room, one of the ones he's never seen opened before, and certainly never had the masochism to dare opening himself.

He waits at the mat, watching as Slade pulls out what looks a lot like two matching, sheathed _swords_. His gaze lingers on them as his master comes back, and when one of them is pressed into his hands he takes it almost reverently. These ones are smaller than the blades that Slade uses, but pulling it an inch out of the sheath proves that it's real, sharp, steel. These are not toys.

"Did you think I was going to keep you confined to wooden weapons forever?" Slade asks, with a touch of amusement. There's no gap for him to answer before Slade's stepping around to his back, hands sliding down the outside of his arms. "You'll start with one. When I'm satisfied you know how to use it, you can learn to use them both at once."

"Like you," he comments, and Slade squeezes his arms for a moment.

"That's right, my boy. Draw it." He does, pulling it from its sheath with a distinctive rasp of metal against metal. The steel gleams in the light. "This will hurt," Slade says, tone entirely matter of fact. "There's very little room for error with blades, and you _will_ make errors. Follow what I say, and I'll make sure you end up with a minimum of scars. Clear?"

He nods, holding the blade before him. "Yes, Master."

Slade's gloves slip down his arms, gripping his wrists and guiding him to sheath the sword again. It's taken from his hands, as Slade's other arm clasps around his chest, firmly holding him for a moment. "Tomorrow," Slade promises. "I want you fresh when we start training with live blades, Apprentice. For now, we'll do a bit of cool down, and then you can come with me and get washed off." Slade lets him go, giving a soft chuckle, and he turns his head in time to see his master wipe the trickle of blood away from his mouth. "I think we're done with sparring for the day."

If Slade's expression and tone wasn't amused he'd be worried, but the glint in that familiar blue eye is proud, and that makes it easy to relax, to know he's done a good job. The end goal was always to make him a better fighter; eventually he was going to grow enough to be dangerous even to Slade, at least a little. Just because it's a surprise to him doesn't mean his master didn't see it coming.

Slade hooks the swords onto previously empty racks on the wall, and then comes back over to him. He leans into the clasp of a hand against the back of his neck, and gives a soft sigh at the brush of lips to his forehead. "You're getting better every day, pet," Slade murmurs. "It won't be long now."

"Until what, Master?" he asks, even though he knows he probably shouldn't press.

Slade watches him for a moment. "Until you're trained; ready."

He's let go, and then he asks, "Master?" Slade looks back at him, standing still and not necessarily encouraging his questions, but not denying them either. Good enough. "Master… What's the endgame here? What am I supposed to be ready for?"

For a moment he thinks that he's crossed the line, asked something he shouldn't have. Slade steps back towards him, lowers a hand to cup his jaw and tilt his head up.

"To be mine," Slade answers simply, quietly.

He frowns. "I _am_ yours."

"In some ways," is granted. "In other ways, you still belong to other people. I'm going to burn all of that out of you, and when you're ready, you'll truly be mine. Completely. When we get there, you'll understand, but for now don't worry about it. Trust me to take care of you; I'm only doing what's best for you, pet."

"I know, Master."

Slade lets go of his jaw, ruffles his hair with a smirk. "Good boy. Now come on. Three laps around the acrobatics course to cool down and then back to me. Take your time; get the form right."

He smiles, and obeys.

* * *

The blades aren't as difficult as he expected them to be, and for the most part he avoids any particularly bad injuries. Then again, when Slade eventually lets him spar with the live blades — against Slade's — it quickly becomes apparent that he's only not getting hurt because Slade is miles better than he is with them. Slade _would_ be cutting him to ribbons, if his master wasn't good enough to only be hitting him with the flat of the blade. More than enough to bruise, and to _hurt_ , but not to draw blood.

Slade does seem to believe that he's good enough with them, so he doesn't view the defeats as failures but as just another part of training. Until he's good enough to win, he's going to lose. It's just that simple.

A different complication comes to light.

At first he doesn't even register it, hidden under the adrenaline and excitement of spars, but slowly he comes to realize that he's… noticing things. Like the heat of Slade's body at his back, the grind of armor against his skin, how _good_ it feels when Slade's fingers clasp around the back of his neck. He doesn't know when it started, he doesn't know what to _do_ with it, and luckily it's taken out of his hands before he has to decide, and before it gets too bad.

"You've been distracted lately," Slade murmurs to him one night, standing in front of the mirror and holding his jaw to carefully, precisely, scrape a razor across it.

It was a bizarre thing to realize that he was starting to grow very faint shadows of stubble; certainly not every morning, but about once a week there will be enough for Slade to pull him aside and clean it off. It's a weird thing to mark the passage of time by, and yet there's still a childish part of him that's thrilled that he has _stubble_.

Slade's still shaving him, and it's not a direct question, so he doesn't risk answering. At least until Slade finishes, setting aside the razor to be rinsed clean and wiping his face with the cloth set aside for that, and asks, "Would you like to tell me why?"

He swallows, meeting Slade's gaze in the mirror and then dropping away from it. "I— Um…”

He can _feel_ the brush of Slade at his back, and it hasn't really mattered in so long but he's naked, damp from the shower, and his thoughts are straying where they shouldn't go. To the curve of Slade's mouth in a smirk, to the feeling of legs and arms wrapped around him, pinning him down, to the brush of Slade's fingers on his skin and how those _gloves_ feel. It's a dangerous line of thought, but his mind betrays him and then his body follows suit. He flushes, trying to stand carefully still and hoping that Slade doesn't notice how he's firming up. Getting hard like he has dozens of times recently.

"Hmm," is Slade's response, and he knows immediately that his reaction _has_ been noticed.

He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the brush of Slade's fingers over his arm and mutters, "Sorry, Master. I— I can't—”

"It's alright," Slade interrupts. "You're young, pet; it happens. Have you been getting off?"

He flushes a little harder, but shakes his head. "No, Master. It's only been while—” He has to swallow again, has to force out, "While we're sparring."

Slade's silent for a moment, and then chuckles. He snaps his gaze up in time to catch it when Slade kisses his temple and then says, with a smirk, "I'm flattered, pet. I'll give you some privacy to take care of it; feel free to rinse off afterwards if you need to." One hand squeezes his shoulder, and then Slade says, more seriously, "From now on, I want you to do this at the _very_ least once a week. That should help you have a bit more control."

He can't quite meet Slade's eyes, but he nods and manages not to curl in on himself as he does. "Thank you, Master."

"Of course, my boy." A hand reaches around, taking his chin and pulling it up, prompting him to look up and meet Slade's gaze in the mirror. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," Slade says, voice low but firm. "Humans have needs, and bodies react in strange ways sometimes. We'll work on getting you control of it, but until then, I want you to remember that it's not your fault. It doesn't make you wrong, or bad, or any other thought in that head of yours. Am I understood?"

It's… It's _good_ to hear that.

He lets out a small breath, and nods again. "Yes. I understand, Master."

"Good." Slade lets him go, takes the razor off of the counter, and steps away. "I'll be outside when you're done. Take your time, Apprentice."

He watches Slade go, and then looks down at the slight rise of his erection. The heat of Slade's fingers still lingers on his jaw like the mildest of brands, leaving him with a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach that says this is not just a phase or some kind of reaction to the fact he hasn't jacked off in… well, not since Slade took him. It's not like he's imagining Starfire, or Raven, or — hell — even Cyborg or Speedy, like he sometimes used to. It's _Slade_. It's all Slade.

He takes a shallow breath and slowly heads back into the shower. The tile is cool against his back as he leans against one wall, slowly sliding down to sit against the ground, legs slightly spread. Despite the gap in time, it still feels natural to lean his head back against the tile and close his eyes, his right hand slipping down between his thighs. He tries to think of Starfire, of her green eyes and smile, of the curves of her and the orange skin of her waist. For a minute, he manages. It's not as… as _enticing_ as he remembers it being, but it's enough to get him hard underneath his own hand.

But the images slip away from him, like bits of sand. He _tries_ to keep them, but he can't keep her in his head, can't imagine her well enough to be able to relax into it. He _remembers_ , he just…

He gives up on that. Raven's been the subject of his fantasies a few times — even though he always worried that somehow her powers would let her _know_ that — and it's not hard to call to mind the pale length of her legs, the cool amusement in her eyes, the black hair that never quite covered the back of her neck.

That's gone even faster. It's not that Raven's not attractive, but she was never one of his more common fantasies and there's just something that's not right about it now. Something unappealing.

Well, he has other things to think of. He’s tried not to because, well, he was never sure how anyone around him would react to it, but there were nights that he gave in to temptation. Speedy was the most common one, from back in the days they'd trained together. Fast, smart, a challenge in a dozen different ways and he'd _loved_ that. He'd been so ahead of everyone else in his age group, among the sidekicks, that it was a relief to meet someone just as good. He doesn't know if Speedy had ever entertained any thoughts about something happening, but he did.

That lasts him longer, thinking about the fight, the grapple of bodies and the thrill, the _excitement_ , of meeting a match. Thinking about the sharp grin and then, even better, that little smirk.

There's something curdling in his gut, something souring the pleasure, and he grits his teeth and makes a sound of irritation, pulling his hand away. Why can't he…?

Alright, mission tactics. Analyze the situation, identify the problem, and then take steps to solve it. This is just another puzzle that he needs to figure out. Slade— Slade _wants_ him to do this so he has to. It needs to happen.

It’s not that he doesn’t still find them attractive, at least in his mind, but there’s something strange about it. Something feels _wrong_ about thinking of any of them here and now, in a way it never has before. Well, he's different in a lot of ways now. Physically he’s taller, stronger, bigger, and maybe his mind doesn't know how to figure that into his imagination. He's sure that _they_ are too, but he doesn't know what they've grown into, how they've changed, even what they sound like these days. Picturing himself — his _new_ self — with any of them feels…

It clicks into place in his head like the thunk of a lock.

Oh _god_. He’s an adult, he _looks_ like an adult, and in his mind they’re still just teenagers. Small and skinny and still all awkwardly long limbs and edges of baby fat, caught in between children and adults and nothing like what he’s grown into, what they _must_ have grown into by now too. God, he just _can’t_.

His breath catches, and he leans his head back against the shower wall and stares up at the ceiling. What is he supposed to do? He’s always needed some kind of picture or fantasy in his head to get off, but everything that he used to use, it’s all…

Cyborg. _Yes_. Cyborg was a couple years older than the rest of them, bigger, already an adult and that’s the memory he has. Cyborg was never one of his higher fantasies, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make it work. His mind had gone just about _everywhere_ as a hormonal teenager, wondered what might actually be between those legs even if he was never insensitive enough to ask, so he’s got memories to pull from, he can—

The touch of metal next to hot skin — like it was heated by the system inside him — pressed against him, pinning him down, poised over him. Stronger than him, always _so_ much stronger, and that voice was deeper, even laughing in his ear about how he’d actually won a match. Kind eyes and a gentle smile, and it’s not hard to imagine Cyborg holding one of his shoulders down, reaching down between his legs and that metal hand would be cool, fingers bigger than his, probably not practiced but eager.

It's a bit of a struggle to impose that over his own hand, but he manages it. Cyborg's always had time for a pat on the back or a ruffle of hair, so he knows what those metal fingers feel like, and he's always been good at sense memory. It's not much different than what his fantasies used to be like.

He leans back into the shower wall, tilts his head back and flicks his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, opening his mouth to pant through it. God, he feels... It's been so long, and it feels all new and so familiar at the same time. It's a bizarre kind of mix of sensation, between the familiar act, and the utterly new feeling of his own hand — _that's_ not the only thing that's bigger — and callouses he never had before. It's strange, but it also still feels _good_ , so he doesn't want to look too closely at any of it. If he thinks about it too much, he might start to really _think_ and that could be the end of everything.

He swallows thickly, closes his eyes so he can go back to his fantasy, and for just a moment he sees the dark skin of Cyborg, sees those kind eyes, but then he thinks about that hand on his shoulder. Firm pressure, the sensation of being pinned on his back, and then it's not dark blue eyes in his mind but a single light one, darker skin turning pale, the grip on his shoulder tightening to push him down harder. _Slade_ stares down at him, smirking, warm fingers lowered between his legs and stroking, expert grip and just how he likes because of _course_ Slade would know exactly what he likes.

He feels a whimper catch in his throat, snaps his eyes back open. The smirk in his mind's eye doesn't go away.

He can't quite make his hand stop, can't quite make _himself_ stop despite the realization that it's Slade in his fantasy, not anything else. Somehow, despite the fact that Slade is — _god_ — decades older, his kidnapper, his master, his _trainer_ , it doesn't feel as wrong as trying to picture the rest of his team. And it comes so _vividly_. It's so easy for him to imagine Slade against his back, fingers around him, breath on his neck, voice a low, rich drawl in his ear.

It almost _scares_ him how easy it is to fall into that fantasy, to find himself enjoying the feeling of his own hand, arching away from the wall. Another whimper slides up his throat, imagining Slade's chuckles in his ear, the possessive slide of fingers across his shoulder.

And then he's coming, pressing his skull back against the wall and biting down on a cry, and it's such a _raw_ feeling after so much time. It rushes up and through him like a wave, and he finds himself gasping, faintly trembling. He barely knows what to do so he just takes it, endures, _feels_ every bit of it as if it's years ago and he's back to doing this like some kind of kid just barely figuring it out. In the dark, in the privacy of his own bed or shower, feeling half enticed and half ashamed by the illicit thrill of his own imagination.

He comes down slow, panting, trying to regulate his breathing and the pounding of his own heart. It takes him a long time to ease both things out enough that he feels normal again, except for the satisfied hum lingering in his bones. It's then that he becomes really aware of the come splattered up against his stomach, and the water clinging to the bottom of his feet and ass from sitting in the water that's still at the bottom of the shower. He considers just wiping his stomach down, walking out like that, but there's a smell lingering in his nose and… and a sense of shame that's there too. Just a little twist of it in the pit of his stomach.

So he gets up and turns the shower back on, slipping beneath the spray and reaching for the soap. It's simple enough to scrub off, to wipe the trace of his release from his skin, and it's only about a minute before he's shutting the water off and stepping out again. It's easy enough to dry off with a towel, since he was careful not to get his hair wet again. After that's done he pulls on the clean uniform that Slade brought in with them, carefully deposits the used towel into a dirty laundry bin — where Slade actually _does_ laundry, he doesn't know — and heads out.

Slade's waiting for him, lying on the bed as usual with the laptop open, and without prompting he climbs onto the bed and slides in beside his master. It's comforting to stretch out along the length of Slade's leg, to press his face in against one armored hip and sink back down into that familiar tap of keys.

It takes a couple minutes for Slade to pause, to reach down and run gentle fingers through his hair. "Feeling better, my boy?"

He presses a little bit closer, hesitates a moment, and then nods.

Slade tugs at his hair, hard enough to pull his head back and make him meet the gaze of that blue eye. The tug makes him shiver, as does the warning tone when Slade says, "Pet… Are you telling me the truth?"

He stays where Slade's lightly holding him, and then lowers his gaze. Slowly, he touches Slade's leg with his hand, gathers the words in his mind and finally admits, "Yes, and no. It felt good." He picks at Slade's armor, scrapes his nails over it to hook along the edges. "I thought of you."

Slade's still, and he can't quite bring himself to look up and see what reaction he might have inspired. "Did you? Is that new, or have you always had a darker mind, my Apprentice?"

"New," he murmurs. "I tried to think of the other Titans, like I used to, but… I'm an adult; in my head they're still kids. It wasn't right." Another moment of silence, as Slade strokes through his hair again, and then he bursts out, "I shouldn't have thought of you either. You're— It was wrong. I—”

" _Stop_ ," Slade orders, and his mouth clicks closed, shoulders tensing a fraction. "Oh, my boy…” He hears the laptop click closed, and then Slade is gently tugging on his hair, commanding, "Come here."

He lifts his head, and realizes there's an open spot underneath Slade's arm. It's not somewhere he's been invited to be before, so he pauses for just a moment to make sure he's reading things correctly before he pushes up and slides into the offered spot. Slade's arm hooks around his shoulders, gathering him close, other hand rising to guide his head in to rest at Slade's shoulder, fingers combing his hair away from his face.

"Alright, I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to accept it. Understood, pet?"

"Yes, Master," he replies dutifully.

"It _does not matter_ what you choose to fantasize about, my boy. Absolutely no one has a right to judge you for what you think about, and it's no one's business but your own. Fantasy is not reality; even if you were thinking of Beast Boy and getting off to it, no one would have that right." He shudders, winces, and Slade gives a low chuckle. "I know; the thought disgusts me too. The point is, a fantasy harms no one. Think of them, think of me, think of Superman if you like, but don't be ashamed of it, my boy. You don't have to tell anyone what you thought of."

He hesitates a moment. "Even you?"

"Even me," Slade confirms, with a gentle squeeze of his shoulders. "I'm flattered, but it's not my business unless you want it to be."

He tilts himself further into Slade's heat, and then takes a forcibly deep breath, looks up, and asks, "What if I do want it to be?" Not that he _does_ , but— but it's a valid question. For information, for planning, and in case… In case maybe he wants to do something. Later.

Slade looks down at him, meeting his gaze for several long, silent moments. Somehow, he manages to hold it. "Today," Slade finally says, "I would say take some time and think about that. Consider it a little more. In the future, maybe my answer will be different."

He relaxes, lets his current breath ease out slow, and then lowers his head to rest against Slade's shoulder again. "Thank you, Master."

Slade holds him there until he falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I am... really fond of this chapter, I gotta say. You'll see why. Enjoy!

He gets better with the swords, to the point where Slade stops treating him with kid gloves and starts to truly spar with him instead. He learns to incorporate his own personal styles — aggression, acrobatics, and close-combat — into the techniques, learns to change them until his own dance of blades is markedly different from Slade's. Based in the same movements, the same tried and true designs, but each changed to suit their own particular strengths.

In those spars he moves more; he's the slightest bit more agile and his actual acrobatics are better than Slade's. He prefers to dance around, to never stay in one spot for more than a moment and to use Slade's greater weight and momentum to his own advantage when possible. Old tactics, from back when he was still a fraction of Slade's size and getting caught in a direct exchange would mean certain failure. Slade, on the other hand, is steadier. Free to play more defensively and for the long term, stalking and wearing him down through greater endurance and greater strength. They learn each other, and it forces him to keep evolving, to keep changing and adapting new ways to fight so Slade doesn't just see right through his next ten moves.

He gains a collection of new scars from it; thin slashes that turn into equally thin marks, a little darker against his skin, the new ones still tinted red until they eventually fade. They don't hurt much, and it gives him something to trace in his moments alone, whether there's purpose behind the touch or not. (A distant part of his mind says that he shouldn't be tracing _scars_ to get off, but he nearly laughs at it; what does it matter what excites him? What feels _good?_ )

Slade seems very pleased with his progress, even when he does lose. There's a part of him that's accepted, in a very matter of fact way, that he'll probably never beat Slade. Not really. He might get the advantage sometimes, he might be able to inflict damage or maybe even pin him down, but he holds no illusions that in a real fight Slade wouldn't hesitate to tear him apart. Nor does he think the chance of Slade not being good enough to do it is very high. Slade beats him consistently, and he knows that he's not getting the full level of what his master is capable of.

In the same way that Slade is making him better, so too all of this sparring and training must be improving Slade as well. Maybe not to the same degree, but he'd be foolish to think that Slade isn't at least getting experience out of this.

Not that any of that matters to begin with, because Slade is his _master_ and he's… not positive he could actually fight to win. Not if it was really serious. That's very different; it's very… wrong, to think about. If it were to come down to him versus Slade… Well, he's not positive that he wouldn't just kneel down and let Slade take his head. The idea of _fighting_ Slade is so strange now, even though he knows that there was a time that doing anything _but_ fighting Slade would have been equally strange.

The viewpoint of a naive, idiot boy that didn't fully understand the world. _Robin;_ even the name clings to the sentimentality of his past, of his original childhood. Apprentice is a better fighter, a steadier person and wiser, in all the important ways. He wouldn't go back, he knows that with cold certainty. He doesn't want to be that child again; he's learned _so much_ here and to throw all of that away seems like a sin of the biblical level.

Slade is his kidnapper, true, but the pain's made him stronger. It's made him _better_. It's not like he's being beaten or tortured just for fun; Slade just wanted to shape him into a true piece of art, and he's done it. Why would he want to go back to clay after that?

"Apprentice!" Slade calls, and he finishes his spin on the bar and drops down, landing in an easy crouch before he heads over.

"Yes, Master?" he asks, wiping sweat away from his brow and coming to a halt a few feet away. Slade is standing by the door, watching him with cool amusement aimed at the sweat of his workout, which up until a few moments ago, he was alone for. Slade had 'other business,' and he hasn't earned the right to know what that business is yet.

One finger crooks, beckoning him a little closer, and he steps forward until Slade can reach out and clasp a hand around the back of his neck, squeezing for just a moment in silent praise. "I have a reward for you, pet."

He straightens up a little more, standing as tall as he can — still only to Slade's jaw — and meeting his eyes as steadily as he can manage as he tries to calm his breathing back down. "Thank you, Master," he answers easily, the words a familiar weight across his tongue.

Slade tugs him a step closer, leaning in to press a small kiss to his forehead before letting go. "Go take a shower, and change into fresh clothes. You'll find them on the bed. When you're done, come back here and we can begin."

He wants to ask what they'll be beginning, wants to know what the reward is, but he knows better than to ask. "Yes, Master. I'll be right back."

It's a jogging pace instead of running, but he knows that's preferable. Unless running is necessary, Slade prefers that he move at a slower pace when traversing the base. Moderately, anyway.

He showers in Slade's room, as he's allowed to; quickly but thoroughly. The clothes on the bed are another simple copy of his Apprentice uniform, mostly soft against his skin, but there's a pair of socks there as well as boots. Black, lace up, good quality and, as he discovers when he pulls them on, his size. It feels _odd_ to be wearing shoes again, after all the time here spent barefoot. They feel heavy on his feet as he jogs back, taxed muscles aching slightly, but he ignores them with the ease of practice. Only a little bit of soreness; it'll go away on its own soon enough.

Slade is waiting just where he was, but moves up to him when he enters the training room. A glance up and down his frame, inspection, and then Slade gives a very faint curl of lips and pats his shoulder as he walks past. "With me, pet."

He follows Slade back out into the base, and then to a door that he passes by every time he makes the journey to or from Slade's room, but has never been past, like many others. It's guarded by a scanner, and as he watches, curious, Slade leans down and puts his single eye in front of it. A sweep of light, and the panel beeps green as Slade straightens back up. The door clicks open and Slade pushes through; he follows on his master's heels, looking around the new area.

It's nothing much to see. Concrete corridors like the ones in the rest of the base, intersecting, with occasional doors. These ones, though, are all protected by the same scanners as the one that blocked him from this whole area. Whatever's in this place, it's not meant for him. It actually makes him a bit uneasy to be here, but he swallows it away and makes himself focus on the line of Slade's back. He's been brought here. He was _invited._ That means that Slade wants him here, and Slade's authority is the only one that matters. He just needs to get over his own wariness; Slade said this was a reward.

Rewards do sometimes hurt, but they're never bad. They're always something that, generally, he never knew he wanted until it was given to him. This is as safe as it can be, and he trusts Slade's word.

He tracks the way out of habit, remembering the path back for future reference (not that he could actually follow it, given that they’ve now passed four security-protected doors). Finally, Slade draws to a stop in front of a door at the end of another corridor. This one is heavier, made of more solid steel, and there’s the same retinal scanner but also a digital keypad below it. This is a door he is absolutely not supposed to get past.

“Come here,” Slade orders, holding out a hand to him. He steps forward, laying his wrist in that hand and letting himself be pulled forward until he’s standing in front of Slade, facing the door. “Close your eyes, pet.”

He does, and a moment later he feels the weight of one of Slade’s gloved hands clasping over his face; a second layer blocking his sight. The hand lets go of his wrist, and he can feel Slade move, leaning down over him. The beep of the retinal scanner is almost expected, and then there’s a succession of different pitched beeps that must be Slade inputting the passcode. Eight digit code, his mind supplies, usually dates, or the repetition of the same four-digit number twice. Then there’s a heavy thunk that must be the lock, before the hand falls away from his eyes.

He keeps them closed as Slade’s presence moves away from him, and he can hear the faint sound of the door being pushed open. _Warm_ air hits his skin, and he fights to keep still and not give into the curiosity of what's beyond the door. He just has to wait. Just a little longer.

"Three steps forward," he's ordered, and he obeys.

There's no impact with the door, or anything else, but there's a soft, familiar sort of crunching sound beneath his feet for the last step. There's a sort of warmth against his skin, and he's absolutely sure that the air brushing against him both has an actual circulation, and is warmer than he's used to. He shifts a bit, tilting his head to see if he can identify the sound of whatever's beneath his feet, and then Slade's hand is brushing across his cheek, combing his hair back away from his face.

"Open your eyes."

He does, and he has to wince, has to close them again for a second at the _light_ before it clicks in his mind what he actually just saw. _Sunshine._

He forces his eyes open even against the brightness, finally recognizing the warmth against his face and the the sound of grass — _grass_ — beneath his boots. He sucks in a breath that smells like recently-wet earth, like it just rained a day ago and everything is fresh and bright and clear again. Everything is _green_ ; grass and leaves and the underbrush, and the trunks of the trees are towering and brown, the sky so amazingly _blue_ past their foliage, and he— he—

An arm wraps around his chest, and he hears the door shut behind him. "Happy birthday, Apprentice," Slade murmurs, lips pressing to his temple in a brief kiss. "Your work has been excellent lately; you deserved a reward."

"Birthday?" he echoes, shifting his head to look up, to see the edge of Slade's jaw.

"Belated," Slade adds, with a soft chuckle. "It's late spring; just a few weeks from summer. It's been raining quite a bit this year, and I wanted your time outside to be on a good day. And of course, I had to wait for you to earn it. Does it feel good, pet?"

He shivers a little bit, looking up at the sky, and breathes, " _Yes_. Thank you, Master. _Thank you._ "

"You're welcome," Slade answers, and then lets him go and steps around, heavier boots crunching against the ground as he walks. "Now come with me, Apprentice."

He pulls his gaze down, a little reluctantly, and his gaze fixes on the rifle slung across Slade's back. Surprise, and then a certain kind of dread, stalls him for a moment before he hurries after, off into the woods. It's a good rifle; not quite sniper, he doesn't think, but more like something for hunting. He studied guns under Bruce, but it's been a long time and technology has moved on. He _thinks_ that's a hunting rifle.

Is it to stop him from running? It hadn't even really _occurred_ to him that he's outside for the first time in… however long. That he could start screaming, pray for Clark to hear him before Slade silences him, or he could run and try to make it to some kind of road or civilization before Slade catches up to him. But, he doesn't know the terrain, he's not _dressed_ for travel like that, and he doesn't think he could outrun Slade in a place like this anyway. Plus, it's doubtful that Clark would recognize his voice anymore, or that he's even still listening for it. Is the rifle just one more reason to keep him by Slade's side? A reminder of all the reasons that he shouldn't try anything?

"Master," he starts, just a little warily, "is that for me?"

Slade glances back over one shoulder, amusement in his eyes and one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning on misbehaving?" is the dry question, and he mutely shakes his head. Slade gives a second laugh, head turning back to the front as he steps over a fallen log that's been all but absorbed into the undergrowth. "This is a reward, but it's also a job, pet. This—” a pull on the strap over one shoulder "—is for what we're hunting."

"Mercenary work?" he asks, before he can think better of it.

Slade looks back again, eyebrow still raised. Or maybe raised _again_. "No, pet. Hunting, as in animals. Deer, most likely; this isn't the right sort of gun to be hunting birds or rabbits. You can follow my commands, can't you?"

"Of course, Master," he answers immediately. "Whatever you want me to do." It's not like Slade's going to just hand him the gun. It's not like he'll have to actually hunt anything, or shoot it, right?

"Good. Then keep pace, follow my orders, and enjoy it, Apprentice. If you're especially good, maybe we can come out again sometime soon." A pause, as his heart _soars_ at the idea of actually getting to spend time out here, and then Slade adds, " _If_ you're good."

He moves a little faster, to close a bit of the distance and be closer to Slade's back. "Thank you, Master."

Slade doesn't say much as they travel, though he can see Slade tracking prints in the ground, and vaguely recognizes the shape of hoof-prints (knowing what deer prints looked like has never been a high priority for him; deer-villains weren't in high supply, and any odd prints could generally be identified with a run through a computer). Slade occasionally comments on them, drawing his attention to the depth and how fresh they are, and he recognizes that they're getting closer as time goes on.

It feels like maybe an hour, where the warmth and the color and the ambient _sound_ nearly overwhelm him, before Slade finally motions him to a halt. He can't help swallowing as Slade's entire posture falls into something predatory, knees slowly bending to bring him down to a crouch, the rifle pulled from his shoulder with careful, soundless movements. The flick of a hand beckons him down, and he's equally careful about sinking down beside Slade, following the line of his gaze through the obstacle-course of trees and to where there are several brown shapes distinguished from their surroundings by the fact that they're moving slightly.

"Watch," Slade orders, voice barely above a breath.

He swallows, but follows the command as Slade carefully aims, breathing slowly and steadily, barely moving. Then he goes utterly still for a long moment, a statue among the rest of the greenery, and then his finger twitches.

The shot makes him jump, _loud_ in a way that things haven't been in a long time. Nature reacts to it too, with the screech of birds and the sudden rustle of everything nearby evacuating. Slade stands, slinging the rifle over his back and rolling both shoulders, loosening out. "Alright, with me, pet."

The caution, and the stalking silence, is gone. Slade moves confidently through the forest, and he follows at his master's heels. He knows, even before Slade draws to a halt, that Slade's bullet hit its target. Of course it did. The sight of it though is something else entirely; legs still twitching, blood pooling from the shot through its throat, single visible eye wide and rolling. A doe.

Slade beckons him closer, taking his wrist to draw him up as they approach the downed animal. It panics at their approach, trying to rise and falling, the sloped breast of it rising in sharp gasps that it can't possibly be fully getting. Something in him clenches tight in sympathy, in horror, even as Slade draws him up to within a couple feet. Far enough to be out of range of the slightly flailing legs, as the doe tries to flee them. Slade's hand slides up his arm, clasping over his shoulder as Slade leans down, speaking softly into his ear.

"Look at her, pet." A squeeze of his shoulder; he shudders. "She's suffering. It's a killing shot, but she'll have to bleed out, or suffocate."

He wants to look away, to look at anything but the blood turning the short fur wet and matted, but Slade's command holds him in place. Slade's hand slides back down his arm, taking his hand and spreading it open, palm up. Then, a moment later, something is being pressed into it. Something long, slightly rough against his palm, and his fingers are being closed over it. He feels the curves of it, and it hits him with a sudden lurch that it's a knife.

"You can end it," Slade tells him, squeezing his hand. "You can end her pain." Slade steps back, and the hand slides off of his to take his arm instead. "Here, come around this way."

Slade guides him around the still-moving doe to kneel at her back, guides him to press a knee over the curve of her skull and put the knife to her chest at an angle to drive into her heart. There's not a touch on him when he takes a shuddering, tight breath and forces the knife down. It slides smoother than he expected, but there's still too much resistance, too much reminder in the way fur brushes his fingers when he buries it that this creature is _alive_. She jerks against him, legs kicking, but stills in the next moment.

He can't bring himself to move for several long moments afterwards, until Slade's hand presses to the center of his back with gentle, but firm pressure. "Well done, Apprentice. It's a clean kill."

The shiver runs down his spine, and he fights against the urge to lower his head, or look away. Slowly, he forces himself to drag the knife back out. It sticks a bit, and as he pulls it out blood starts to flow. Some gets on his fingers, warm and wet and it makes his stomach turn, even as the knife pulls free with an awful sucking sound. Slade reaches around and takes the knife from him, pulling it away and out of sight. The hand on his back slides up, until it can clasp around the back of his neck instead.

He closes his eyes at that familiar squeeze, at that silent reassurance that he's done a good job. That Slade is happy with him. It lets him block out the sight of the blood on his fingers.

"Alright," Slade murmurs. "We're done here. Pick her up; let's get back."

He takes a shaky breath, tilting his head head back as he opens his eyes, and can only offer, "Yes, Master."

* * *

Slade takes him hunting a few more times, twice more for deer and once to set traps for rabbits. He likes that one especially; it leaves him sitting by the exit door for a long time, curled under Slade's arm as they wait. He gets the impression that waiting outside is a gift to him, because he doubts that Slade actually usually just waits outside the door for his traps to catch things.

He's also pretty sure that their actual supply of food comes from somewhere else, because his food hasn't been solely meat since he was brought here, and unless there's some sort of hidden garden somewhere out in the woods, and Slade is somehow actually making what tastes like canned food, there has to be a supply from somewhere. That, or the bunker — the door leads straight into the side of a hill — had an absolutely massive stock of food in it, which would mean that Slade planned his capture for a long time.

Another thing he tries not to think about.

Slade teaches him the best way to kill the animals; quick and clean, with minimum damage to meat or hide. He also learns the technicalities of tracking in a more wooded environment, as opposed to urban, as well as how to deal with the animals after they're killed. That part, Slade waits a couple times to teach him, apparently understanding how much having literal blood on his hands, and carrying a cooling body back to their base, unsettles him. He's nearly sick the first time that Slade, step by step, guides his hands in how to skin and butcher an animal.

(But Slade holds him close, strokes his hair, _waits_ , and it passes. And he learns.)

It gets easier, after the first few times. The blood still unnerves him a little bit when he feels it against his skin, warm and tacky and undeniably _not his_ , but he learns to shut that away with slow breaths and the reminder that the animals are only that. Animals. Nothing that doesn't get regularly killed for a steak, or a drumstick, even if he's not used to personally seeing the death or being responsible for it. It's not that different.

Slade continues to be satisfied with his rate of improvement, at least as far as he can tell. He's getting hit less often at least, and he's scored a few hits on Slade too that have earned him low chuckles and some quiet praise.

Eventually, Slade takes him aside, mentioning 'better things' again as he brings him to a side room off of the training one. He's never been into it before (never dares to go anywhere Slade doesn't specifically take him), but it only takes him a few seconds once Slade's brought him past the door to recognize the layout as a shooting range. There's a locked chest, guarded by a keypad, and he averts his gaze automatically when Slade goes to unlock it, even though Slade's body blocks sight of it anyway.

Then Slade comes back, with two handguns in one hand; small, sleek things that look like they're fairly close range, nothing like the rifle that Slade brings hunting. He stares, as Slade brings him forward to a small table, waiting by the waist-high barrier before the long rows for the targets themselves.

"You've come far enough, Apprentice," Slade murmurs, and holds out one of the two guns to him.

He takes it after a moment of hesitation, and it's _heavy_. Cold metal that fits oddly in his hand, and something in him recoils as his heart picks up its pace, every bit of him remembering the long nights spent with Bruce, where he was taught all about guns and how very, _very_ deadly they are. How to handle them, how to shoot them, how to take them apart or disable them as efficiently as possible…

Slade is speaking, and he looks up and realizes that Slade is demonstrating with the other handgun, facing the targets. Facing away from him.

He shifts the gun in his hand to a better grip, finger falling easily to the outside of the trigger guard as all of that training comes back to him, his gaze lowering to the dark grey metal as he swallows. Slade is still speaking, but he can't understand the words. When he lifts his gaze it catches on the back of Slade's head. Bare. Undefended. The only bit of him that isn't covered in armor; the only bit that would take Slade down. Permanently.

This close a bullet would get through the armor, but… Slade heals, and his tolerance is miles above any normal human's. A crippling shot would do its work for… minutes, at the most, and Slade has a gun of his own. Even if a shot could keep Slade down for more than a minute, he'd be open to attack in return, and a shot _will_ take him down. He'd never get away. He'd never…

He only has _one_ chance. He has to— He— He _has_ to. There's no other option, no other good way to do this, no way to get out. This is his _only_ shot.

He raises the gun. Aims it at Slade's head. Takes a breath that comes out slow as he slides his finger within the guard, onto the trigger itself. Pulls the trigger.

_Click_.

His breath comes out sharp, and Slade is setting down the other gun on the table and turning back to him. He doesn't think to lower the gun until Slade is taking it from him, fingers pulling it from his hand and setting it aside, other hand coming up and touching his shoulder, the side of his neck. He remembers to take a breath, and lifts his gaze up to meet Slade's, as gloved fingers cup the side of his cheek and tilt his head up.

"I'll have to punish you for that," Slade says, voice soft in the silence, gaze calm, thumb sliding over his cheek.

His exhalation comes out a bit uneven, but he holds the single blue eye. "I know."

Slade gives a slow nod, then looks down at the gun sitting on the table. "You shot to kill."

He doesn't know what to say to that; it's true. He— He was going to kill Slade. He would have, if it wasn't a trap. He pulled the trigger.

Slade looks back to him. Smiles. "Good boy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! So, here we are. If you took a look at those new tags, you know exactly what this chapter is. It also, true to form, is twice as long as any other chapter because, well, that's what my porn does. It goes without saying, but this is of course not a healthy thing. At all. (Though it is consensual, for whatever that's worth in this situation.) Also, at this point, Dick is just about twenty.
> 
> Enjoy!

He aches for what feels like months after Slade's punishment, can barely even rise for the first dozen meals brought to him, and even after it takes him time to have the strength to move on his own. But Slade lets him recover in his room, sleeping on his bed. Feeds him by hand when his shake too badly to lift water or utensils. Sits and sleeps beside him, always there to help however he needs it until he can regain his own agency. Even then, when he can move on his own despite the pain, Slade does not take any of these new liberties away.

Slade eats with him, cares for him, and even as he grows able to do all of it himself again, albeit slowly, allows him to continue to rest in the same bed. Until, one day, Slade pulls a cot into the room and nudges it into the corner, and he's told, plainly enough, that he'll be staying here. That despite his misstep, and in some ways because of it, he's earned freedom from the cell that's served as his home. He understands the subtleties of it, and the simplicity.

The fact that he tried to kill is a good thing, a step forward in Slade's opinion and deserving of a reward. However, any action against his master deserves punishment, and earning a reward doesn't cancel out the fact that he still deserved that punishment.

He _deserves_ the pain he's in. He knows he does. He also knows that he had to try, and having that done brings a simple sort of… peace. Now he knows he would kill if given a true chance, and so does Slade. He also knows that the possibility of there ever being a chance is minuscule; he belongs to Slade and that's how things are always going to be. It could be much worse; Slade wants what's best for him, and now that he's obedient punishment is almost nonexistent. Slade is... _kind_ , in small ways. Important ways.

He could have been left in his cell to heal, to be miserable and alone, and he would have deserved that. But Slade knows how much he hates solitude and silence, and chose to allow the pain to serve as reminder instead. He's grateful for that. He's grateful that Slade chose to help him through the worst of the aftermath, and he's grateful still that Slade continues to care for him even though he took the bait of the trap that was laid.

He heals, slowly. His strength returns, and with it Slade very slowly gives him basic exercises to do again. Enough to leave him weak, but not to fully exhaust him or strain what has not yet recovered. He does what is asked of him, follows the orders Slade lays out for him and as time passes, the last of his pain fades away. They return to training, as he tries to rebuild the muscle and skill that has waned while he healed. He bears a new set of scars, but he knows that with time they’ll heal, like all the others. It will only take time, and none of the damage is permanent.

His skill returns, and Slade, eventually, takes him back into the shooting range. What he remembers from Bruce's lessons, enough to assemble and then take apart every gun Slade puts in front of him, earns him approval. He's not offered another chance, and maybe that's good. He honestly doesn't know if he would take it.

A short time after Slade begins to teach him how to use the guns (perhaps a few weeks, judging by times of rest, though he rarely tracks time these days), a day comes when Slade stops him after breakfast, holding his arm and keeping him close. A moment, where he pauses and waits, and then Slade's hand lifts to his cheek, to brush across the smooth skin there, just recently shaved by Slade's hand. He tilts his head into the touch of those fingers, and waits for Slade's commandment.

After a few more moments, Slade murmurs, "There is something you must see, Apprentice."

He stays steady, holding back any reaction to the words until clarification arrives. Slade's tone is a little more foreboding than he's used to, but he doesn't want to draw conclusions yet, not when they may make him worry over things that won't happen. Slade wouldn't let harm come to him unless he deserved it, and as far as he knows, he doesn't.

"Come with me."

Slade's hand leaves his cheek, but only to clasp around the back of his neck and pull gently at it, leading him from the room. He falls easily in step, practiced at matching himself to Slade's longer stride, guided by the light touch of the hand at the back of his neck. The route they take is familiar, towards the training room, but the door Slade stops in front of is one he’s never been through. The very first one on the right side of the corridor, guarded by pad and scanner; one he passes every day but that Slade has never so much as paused at.

He watches as Slade inputs the code — four digits; four-seven-five-two — and then tugs one hand free of a glove and presses it to the scanner. "You will never enter this room without me," Slade says, as the lock disengages with a clunk. "Is that clear, pet?"

"Yes, Master," he answers, briefly wondering why the question was asked but deciding to brush it aside. It's not his place to question.

Slade leads him forward, pushing the door open ahead of them and guiding him into the darkened room. Even before the lights are clicked on, he can hear the buzz of electronics, and see the blinking of small lights. Then the lights do come on, the room is revealed, and he recognizes the shape of large monitors spread across the wall, and a console beneath. Smaller than the Bat-computer, but still familiar even turned off as it is. Still a call to something in him that straightens up and pays attention.

A computer that large must have a connection to the outside world, otherwise what's the point of it? That means it's a point of contact, or a point of information at the very least.

He stands still despite his interest when Slade lets go of him, and crosses the room to the computer. He expects it to be turned on, but instead Slade picks up a file on the surface of the desk the console is part of, one among many, and turns back to him. Again, his expectation is defied. Instead of giving him the file, or opening it, Slade simply guides him back out the door and pulls it closed. He tries not to hesitate as he's guided away, back towards the room he shares with Slade, but his hesitance must show in some way because Slade's hand — still bare of the glove — briefly squeezes the back of his neck.

"Easy, pet," comes the murmur. "You'll see what’s in it in just a minute; you'll want to be on familiar ground for this."

"Whatever you think is best, Master," he makes himself answer, to brush away any thought that he might be disobedient. He _won't._

When they reenter Slade's room he's released, but Slade flicks a hand to beckon him to follow until they're standing at the side of the bed. Then, finally, Slade turns and offers him the file. He takes it, waits for the small nod from Slade to confirm, and then flips it open.

It's… pictures. Crisp, high-detail pictures of a familiar figure and the boy beside him. Bruce, as Batman, and the boy next to him in a costume patterned red, green, and yellow. Familiar colors, familiar design, but the wild grin on the boy's face isn't his, and the angle of his face is wrong, the curl of his hair over both temples…

"Who is this?" he asks, his voice quiet as he pages through the pictures, something in his chest drawing tight and brittle.

"His name is Jason," Slade answers, voice equally quiet. "He's Robin now; has been for a little over three years."

He traces his fingers over the curve of the boy's shoulder, the flare of the familiar cape. "How long has it been?" His voice comes out almost faint, but he can't… He _can't_ —

"A couple months shy of four years."

"He wouldn't." He wishes he could say it with more conviction, wishes he could _believe_ that Bruce wouldn't actually replace him just like that. He knew they weren't on the best of terms when he chose to live and work with the Teen Titans, but— "He wouldn't just give away my _name_ ," he presses, his throat tightening to match his chest. "That was— Robin was _mine_. My mother's— _I_ made it. He wouldn't just give it away!"

Slade's expression, when he jerks his gaze up, is steady. "He's a Gotham street kid," Slade tells him. "He was picked up seven months after I took you, and became Robin officially two months after that. He's been working on and off with the Titans as well, as you did."

"No," he denies, weakly. "They… They can't just stick someone else in the costume. He can't just take my name." His gaze drops to the photos, to the clear familiarity in the way they stand near each other. To the way this boy, Jason, is smiling up at Bruce in some of them. He feels sick. "He can't just be _me._ B can't just give that away; he can't just hand off what I built to someone else!"

His fingers crumple the spine of the folder, and he can feel his mouth curling to bare teeth, feel the scorching heat of _anger_ as it claws its ways up from the deepest depths of his gut. Unfamiliar, uncontrollable, rising from the dark corners that he pressed it into so he could survive, where he’s never let it come back up. He’s— He’s _furious_.

"He _can't!"_ he shouts, and he _flings_ the file, scatters the pictures across the floor and he _hates_ every wild grin aimed up at him. Wants to curl his hands around Bruce's throat and _demand_ answers for why he was abandoned here and then just replaced like some kind of missing toy, ask him why his mother's nickname for him and the costume he put together himself can just be handed off to a complete stranger and given away like they weren't personal, _deep_ parts of who he was.

It's like a dam's been broken, and he shouts wordless rage down at the photos, his hands curling to fists as he wishes for someone to hit. He grinds a foot into one picture, trying to destroy the smile, trying to destroy how happy the imposter looks sitting next to _his_ mentor, his _father_. How dare they? How _dare_ Bruce do this to him? How dare everyone else just _go along with it?_

And then a thought occurs.

"How long have you known?" he demands, lifting his head to meet Slade's single eye. When there's no immediate answer, he shouts, "How long have you known?!"

Slade gives a slow sigh, and then answers, "Six days after you took your shot at me. I decided to wait until you were recovered; I didn't want this to be mixed up in your punishment. Now you are. Do you want to know more about him?"

" _No_ ," he snaps, shoving away the picture beneath his foot. "He shouldn't have that name. He shouldn't have that suit. No one should ever have been that but me! It was _mine!_ He— He shouldn't have—!" He winds up and _strikes_ at the nearest target, impacts hard enough against black and metal armor that his hand aches, but it doesn't move. "He had no _right!"_ is what tears itself out of his throat, as his eyes squeeze shut and his jaw clenches down. "He had no right to give that away! No right to _replace_ me!"

Fingers curl around his wrist and he jerks, his eyes snapping open as he's reeled in. The automatic lashing out of his other hand is caught as well, and it takes him that long to realize it's Slade holding his wrists, fingers firm but gentle, his gaze still rock-solid.

"Easy, pet," Slade murmurs, thumbs rubbing into his pulse points. "Breathe for me; slow down. You can beat this into a target later, I promise. Just take a deep breath in for right now, let go, and I'll take care of you."

It takes a couple tries, but he manages to force himself to obey. To take in a deep breath, and then to let it ease out again, taking the edge off the rage in his chest. It doesn't go away though, not by a long shot, and he shudders at the feeling of it, his mouth still curled into half a snarl.

"That's it," Slade promises, and then slowly eases his hand — the one that had actually impacted — open and runs fingers over it, examining his knuckles and joints for damage.

He stares, and there's a strange want in his gut, building next to that anger. A want he recognizes, but is so _very_ different. Anger, and hatred, and bitterness, and somehow that makes him step forward and lean up, brushing his lips over Slade's in the best kiss he can manage with their height difference. And it's… it's _good_. It's a kick in the teeth to everything he shouldn't do and _god_ at least he knows that Slade wants him. Slade always wanted him, even without this, even when he really was someone else's. _Slade_ would never have just given up and focused his obsession on someone else.

He drops away, and Slade is still for a moment. Looking down at him, studying him. Then, finally, points out, "The Bat wouldn't like this, kid."

And the anger surges again, rises up his throat and strangles him for a second before he can manage to breathe again. Slade is still, watching him, waiting for his move, and he— Bruce doesn't get to influence his life one more _fucking_ moment.

He bites his lip for a half-moment and then shifts deliberately closer and holds Slade's gaze. " _Bruce_ can go to hell. _He's_ not the one I belong to."

Slade's mouth curls into a small smile, and the hands on his wrists rise to cup his face instead, one gloved and one bare. "No," Slade murmurs, thumbs sliding along his cheeks. "No he's not."

And Slade leans down, bare hand sliding around to curl into his hair and pull him up until their lips meet. It's _nothing_ like the few kisses he's shared before; Slade is confident where they were shy, and the scratch of the neat beard against his jaw is utterly new in the same way that the hand in his hair that's guiding him to better angles is. He shivers, trying to mimic the subtle movement of Slade's lips against his. When they pull back, he gives a small, protesting sound without even thinking about it.

Slade chuckles, low and rich, as he opens his eyes. "Easy, Apprentice. I'll teach you; just like I've taught you everything else. Be patient."

"I—” He swallows, makes himself accept the slight reprimand for what it is. "Yes, Master."

The gloved hand on his cheek strokes over his skin. "Good boy. Now, tell me what you want, pet. Tell me how far this goes."

How _far?_ He's… He still feels sick, feels stripped raw and soaked full of bitter anger, and he can feel the _pain_ behind all that and he just— He wants it gone. He wants to feel normal and at peace again. He wants to feel _good_ , and _cared_ about, and _wanted_. He wants to feel like anything but last year's model.

"All of it," he answers, not even sure what he's asking for, but… "I want… Just make me feel… Make me feel like…” He can't get the words out, can't make himself admit to all that bitter desire. " _Please_."

"Oh, pet," Slade breathes, stroking his cheek. "Of course I will. Of course I _do_." Slade presses a kiss to his forehead and then pulls him closer, the hand on his cheek pulling away to wrap an arm around his back instead. "You're _my_ boy, and I'll print it all across your skin if that's what you want. Just tell me 'yes.' "

He shudders, and then gasps, " _Yes._ Please, Master. _Please_."

Slade squeezes him close for a moment, and then pushes him back far enough that their eyes can meet. "The only rule in this is that you do what I say," Slade tells him, voice low and serious. "Do you understand?"

It takes him a moment to think through those implications, before he can honestly answer, "Yes… Slade."

"Good boy," Slade praises, with a small curl of lips. "Go lie down on the bed now; face up."

He nods and moves to obey, climbing onto the bed and lying down, wiggling upwards until his head is at the pillows. By the time he has Slade is following him, stripping the remaining glove off and easily straddling his thighs. He inhales sharply as those hands lower to his waist, sliding underneath his shirt and pushing it up, slowly peeling it off of him until it passes his head and can be pulled off his arms as well. It's discarded off the side of the bed, and he's been naked before Slade more often than he's been clothed in his time here, stopped thinking about it as anything important, but now it _does_ feel important. The touch of Slade's hands on his chest doesn't feel inconsequential or casual anymore, not with the intent in Slade's eye.

A thumb brushes over one nipple and he shivers at the little rush of pleasure there. Slade gives a low, rumbling, satisfied sound, before one hand is cupping his cheek and drawing his gaze. "Since you first told me about your fantasies, I've thought about this," Slade tells him, voice low, the other hand returning more purposefully to his nipple to tease at it. "I've thought about what I'd do to you, if you ever decided you wanted this. What I'd show you… What I'd teach you…” A pause, as blunt nails lightly pinch at it, drawing a small gasp from him. "I'm your first, aren't I?"

"Yes," he confirms, shifting his chest up against the touch of those fingers.

Slade's nod is idle, as if he knew already. "I'll walk you through this; all you have to do is listen and enjoy. You can do that for me, can't you, boy?" He echoes the nod, tilting his head to kiss at Slade's palm, to feel the heat there and the slide of smooth skin. "Excellent. Now, these—” Slade pinches at his nipple again, and he gives a rushed exhalation at the feeling "—vary in sensitivity depending on person. A fair amount of people enjoy them being rubbed, or sucked on; some also enjoy a small bite of pain through harder pinches or teeth, but we'll leave that aside for now. For today, basics."

He shivers slightly, as the hand moves to his other nipple, bringing the same dull heat to it with the teasing fingers. Then he finds a bold sort of recklessness, and asks, "Are yours sensitive?"

A smile, and a slightly firmer pinch that arches his back and draws a small groan from his throat. "Not as much as yours, apparently," Slade teases, gently. "A product of experience, I imagine."

"Can I—?" He swallows, looking back up at Slade and raising a hand so he can touch the black and metal armor covering Slade from neck to toe. "Will you take the armor off?"

"Ask for what you want, pet," Slade corrects, fingers stroking his cheek. "Tell me."

He has to draw in a breath, to remind himself that Slade said there were no rules here apart from to do as ordered. "I want this armor to come off," he says, rephrasing as ordered. "So I can touch you. Please?"

Slade pauses for a moment, and then grazes fingers over his lips as his hand slides back. "Of course. Here, let me show you how." Slade takes his hands and lifts them to his armor, quietly explaining as he shows him the catches and the safeties hidden into it. Guides him in first removing the metal plates on top of it, and then the reinforced suit beneath. Until it's all fallen to the side, and Slade's chest is bare, skin just a few shades lighter than his stretched over hard muscle and dusted in small, curling white hairs near the center.

He carefully touches ribs, slides one hand up to feel the definition of a pectoral, his breath coming a little bit sharper. "Would you—?" He cuts himself off, takes in a steadying breath and forces himself to ask _correctly_. "I want to know what you like. What I can do that you'll like. Tell me?"

"So eager to please," Slade murmurs, with a smile. "This time is about you, pet. Let me take care of you first, and trust that you are more than pleasing enough for me to get my own satisfaction in the process of granting you yours. Now, I'm going to shift off of you, and I want you to reach over into the bedside table to your right, and retrieve the plastic bottle inside. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

Slade looks at him a little bit sharply for that, and he sucks in a breath, wondering if there's something about that that's wrong. Then Slade shakes his head and gives a small laugh, pulling back and off him. "Careful; call me that again and I might get a little military on you, boy."

He stretches out to reach for the table, as ordered, and finds that he has to roll over and crawl a little further before he can actually reach it. He's almost expecting to be grabbed while he's on his stomach, pushing up far enough that he can see into the drawer and find the bottle, but it doesn't come. He reads the label as he pulls back, and flushes a bit. Silicone lube, which he's familiar with but not in _this_ context. Lube was the easiest thing to carry around to fix squeaky hinges or sticking tools, and Bruce—

He swallows and hands the bottle over, curling his fingers into the sheets beneath them and trying to breathe away the spike of anger. He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes, still sitting up, until Slade's hand slides through his hair and he startles a bit, making them snap back open. Slade's gaze is calm, studying, and he can't help but hold it, can't help but feel like he's stripped bare underneath it in far more important ways than just skin, and Slade knows every inch of what he's feeling.

"If you don't want to do this," Slade starts, voice once again gone low and serious, "then we won't. This is your choice, pet, and I _will not_ push farther than you want me to. Do you understand that?"

"I understand," he answers, after a moment. "I wasn't— I just thought about… about Bruce, and I—” He shudders at the heated anger trying to claw its way back up his throat, has to clench his jaw and breathe deep and slow through his nose to get a handle on it. "Carve him _out_ of me," he manages to grind out. "Get him out of my head, _please_. I don't want to feel like this. I don't—”

Slade kisses him, and it startles him enough that when a tongue swipes across his lower lip he gasps out of reflex, allowing that tongue to slide inside his mouth. Which he knew was a thing but he'd never actually done it with anyone, never had someone else _claim_ him like this, and that's what it feels like. He feels the brush of fingers across his waist before they hook underneath the waistband of his pants, and he shivers as the cloth is pulled down, baring the rest of him. The hand in his hair leaves to help, guiding him to lift his legs and curl them so the pants can be fully removed.

"Kid," Slade murmurs, when the kiss is finally broken and he's bare before his master, "I'm going to dig so far underneath your skin that there won't be room for anyone else, I promise. Just trust me."

"I do," he breathes, opening his eyes again. "Tell me— Tell me what to do."

Slade's lips brush his. "Lie back, and spread your legs."

He's reluctant to pull away but does it anyway, curling down to lay his back against the sheets, and then to part his thighs in offering and obedience. Slade's hands brush the inside of them, gently pushing them wider as his master slides between them, skin hot where his thighs brush against Slade's waist. Slade leans down, hands coming to grip the outside of his thighs instead as a kiss is pressed to his chest, before more are trailed down, following the center line of his torso. He shifts a bit, fighting the urge to let his head fall back as that mouth lowers, and _lowers_.

He jerks and moans when those lips press against the head of him, but Slade's hands keep him held still and the most he can do is clench his hands into the sheets and loop his calves over Slade's back. His heels dig _hard_ into the muscle beneath them when Slade's mouth parts and slides down _over_ him, tongue sliding along the base of him before flicking upwards, making him try to buck as he cries out. It's hot and wet and he has no idea what to even _do_ faced with this kind of sensation. No idea how to deal with it or even begin to try and actually hold out.

One hand leaves his thigh, the other arm looping around to hold him more securely, and then there's the flick of a cap. He can barely focus enough to understand the implications, and he doesn't get it in time for the slick touch at his ass to not surprise him. He jolts a bit, and Slade's mouth slides off of him. But not without a hard _suck_ to the top that makes him arch and cry out again, much louder.

"Easy, pet," Slade says, as he collapses back down, shivering. "I'm not going to hurt you. _Trust_ me, and let go." A small chuckle, and a kiss to the top of his cock that makes him jerk a little bit. "I'm expecting you to be fast, pet. There's no shame in that; let it happen whenever it does."

"Yes, Master," he manages to gasp, and is rewarded with a smile.

The finger, because it has to be a finger, slides into him. It's… It's odd, and he's not sure that he likes it, but it's slick and weirdly interesting and he's not sure he _dislikes_ it either. He squirms a little bit, until Slade's tongue flicks beneath the head of him and the breath is knocked out of him, his hips jerking up the inch or so they're allowed.

"Patience," Slade reminds him. "I'll take care of you, pet."

Slade's smiling when that mouth takes him in again, wiping out any last hesitation he has about how this feels. He tries to keep his hips as still as he can, limiting his movement to his torso. The sensation of Slade's mouth sliding over him, of the tongue unerringly finding every sensitive spot to make him cry out or writhe, almost entirely blocks out the movement of that finger in him as it slides. The coil in his gut builds quickly, faster than he usually manages with just his own hand and entirely to Slade's prediction.

He presses against Slade's back with his heels, trying to steady himself at least a bit but it's a lost cause. Words have deserted him, but he pleads with the sounds he's capable of, rocking how he's allowed to and chasing that feeling, chasing the release already barreling towards him.

And then Slade is sliding off of him, and he almost cries out a protest except that there's a low command of, " _Come_ for me, pet," followed by a wet, hot tongue sliding up the base of him, tracing the sensitive, more prominent vein there, and he's _gone_.

He cries out, jerking and twitching and falling to pieces as he follows Slade's command. He sobs a breath out, feeling the wet heat of the release against his stomach, feeling the ecstasy in his veins almost burn with its intensity, drawing him tight and then letting him shatter as it starts to fall. His breath comes in sharp gasps, his back slipping out of its arch as he sprawls out, head falling to the side. Slade's hand is sliding across his thigh, gentle strokes that match the movement of the finger still buried inside him; a more familiar sensation now and he's realizing it's a strangely good one, especially now that he's sensitive and more keyed towards pleasure.

"Slade," he murmurs, as he comes back to himself, the name slightly slurred but his desire clear enough.

Before he manages to open his eyes, Slade is pulling to turn him onto his side, and when he does get his eyes open Slade is just finishing lying down in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat of his master's skin. He blinks, reaching out, and Slade allows him to pull closer and bury himself into all that warm skin, tucking his head into the firm chest there and breathing deep. One of Slade's arms extends underneath his shoulder, coming up behind him and curling into his hair. The other, and he can feel the slickness of it against his skin, guides him to raise his top leg and hook it over Slade's thigh before it slips back down between his legs.

There's dull pressure, the breach of that finger, and he gives a soft, breathless moan into Slade's chest, grazing his fingers over warm muscle and the solidity of his master.

"Enjoy that, pet?" Slade asks him, voice just as soft as his.

He nods, sliding his top arm around Slade's chest and clinging closer. "Thank you," he murmurs, and then lifts his head, tilting it up until he catches the edge of that single blue eye. "I can do the same. I can—”

"No," Slade denies, gentle but firm. The fingers curled in his hair stroke along his scalp, and his eyes flicker closed beneath the touch, his breath leaving him in a long sigh. "I have other plans for you," Slade tells him, tugging lightly at his hair to arch his neck. "I'm going to take my time working you open, nice and slow, to make sure that this is good for you. When you're ready, and hard again, then I'll get my own satisfaction. I can wait, pet; you're worth that."

He presses a little further into Slade, tightening his leg around Slade's thigh for a moment before he relaxes. "Thank you, Master."

"Of course, my boy. Now be still, and enjoy."

He obeys, letting Slade do what he wants, and letting the sensation of the finger — and then two, finally _three_ by the time he's starting to feel building heat under his skin again — be his focus. He's rocking into it by the time Slade has him open to his satisfaction, clinging to Slade's back with his hand and panting against the chest his face is all but buried against. He's half-hard again, this one a slower build, and he feels stretched around Slade's fingers. It's an odd feeling, but he's now undeniably sure that it's a very good one. The stimulation against his rim is like nothing he's felt before, and he knows he wants more. Wants _Slade_. Knows that he has to voice that if he's going to get it.

"There we go," Slade finally murmurs, fingers slowing to a stop. "Do you feel ready, pet?"

"Yes, Master," he offers in answer, trying to loosen the grip he has on Slade's back. The fingers slip from him, and he gives a low groan, utterly failing the attempt and digging his nails into Slade's skin. "Please, I— I want more. I want—”

"I know," is the calm reassurance, as his leg is eased down off of Slade's thigh. "You'll get it, I promise, but you have to let go for a minute."

It's harder than he expects, to disconnect from the comforting, steady warmth of Slade's chest, but he forces himself to. Slade's hand slides free of his hair, and his master pulls away, sliding off the bed to begin shedding the bottom half of his armor. He watches, trying to stay still, and his gaze dips down the curve of Slade's back, following the dip of his spine down to the curve of Slade's backside. Firm muscle, and he finds himself flushing again, finds himself drawing his gaze away in embarrassment, unable to stare even though the view is… nice. Very nice.

Slade climbs back onto the bed, and his gaze dips between Slade's leg, to what hangs there, before pulling his gaze up to Slade's face instead. There's a smile there, and Slade crawls to him, cupping his cheek and drawing him up off the bed. He pushes up on his arms, as Slade draws him up into a kiss and slides a tongue inside his mouth, claiming him with ease. Only for a few moments though, only long enough for the hand to slide down his cheek and to his throat, clasping around the back of his neck and holding him up.

"Good boy," Slade whispers to him when the kiss is done, mouth trailing over his jaw, down to kiss at his neck. He tilts into it, and Slade pulls him up. "Come here, my boy."

He follows the guiding of Slade's hands as Slade draws back and lies down, and he's pulled to kneel above the width of his master's hips, legs spread wide to manage it, his hands pulled forward to brace against Slade's chest. He shifts, unsure what he should be doing, as Slade grips his hips, the press of fingers unyielding and firm.

As if reading his mind, Slade murmurs, "Easy. I'll teach you, Apprentice. Trust my touch." He dips his head, before Slade squeezes his hips and draws his attention back. "Take one of your hands and put it between us," Slade commands, speaking low and clear. "You'll need to grip me to get the angle right, and then you can begin to take me. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." Having it be an order makes it easier to push away the embarrassment reddening his cheeks, and he does as Slade's described, reaching down and curling his fingers around Slade's cock. It's… hefty, in his hand, and he swallows before he shifts downward enough that he can feel the tip nudging at him.

Then Slade's hands pull him down an inch, and he gasps a sharp breath as the tip slides easily into him, slick and hot and the _more_ that he wanted. He shivers, as Slade's thumbs rub circles into his skin, that single blue eye watching him as steadily as ever despite the position.

"Sink down," Slade orders. "Go slow, stop if you need to." The words push him to move, to allow his fingers to slip away as he lets his weight drop down inch by inch. Slade splits him wide, deeper and farther than the fingers even hinted at. But there’s no hint of pain, no hint of anything but a dull sort of stretch that he can breathe away easily enough.

He finally settles down, Slade’s hips a solid base beneath him as he dips his head and shivers, digging his fingers into Slade’s chest as he tries to stabilize. Slade’s hands are still firm on his hips, a grounding point as he works through the unfamiliar pressure of being so _full_. He forces his eyes to stay open, resting near Slade’s collarbone, so he’s not caught quite as much off guard when Slade shifts upwards, a hand sliding off his hip and rising to trace along his cheek and tilt his head slightly more up.

“Take your time,” he’s told, as that hand strokes the side of his neck and then lightly clasps over his shoulder. “There’s no rush, pet. In your own time, when you’re ready.”

He nods, lowering his head so he can press his lips to Slade’s hand, breathing in the clinging scent of leather and the body wash that Slade uses. Familiar, comforting scents that make it easier for him to relax, to let the feeling of too much ease away and let it become a good thing instead. Just _right_.

“Tell me what to do,” he asks, when he feels like he can move, when he feels like he _needs_ to move.

Slade’s hand slides back down to his hip, squeezing lightly before answering, “Just let me guide you, pet. It’s just another sort of rhythm; I know you can do it.”

The hands at his hips lift him into a rise, and he braces his toes against the bed as he recognizes the angle of movement, the strain of thighs that he can offset with the hands braced on Slade’s chest. And it feels _good_. The way Slade slides inside of him, keeping him stretched and open, is so much more intense than just the fingers, and still an entirely different sort of pleasure than he's ever known before. Deeper, slower, and then Slade tilts his hips on the next slide to a different angle and his back arches as Slade slides against something inside of him that he— he—

Slade pauses for just a moment, murmuring, "Easy, pet. That's—”

"I know," he interrupts, breathless. "I— I know, I just didn't think it was like that."

He'd sat through the 'talk,' and it was way more detailed than he wanted to know for things that he wasn't close to doing, but now he's maybe glad that it was quite so thorough about any and all gender combinations because he at least knows what's happening. He knows that the odd, intense, _deep_ kind of pleasure Slade just inspired is pressure against his prostate, and he'd never quite had the interest or daring to try to actually reach that himself but _god_ if he'd known maybe he would have. Maybe he would have tried to experiment because he knows right now that he wants _more_ of that.

"Again," he pleads, pushing down against Slade and then rocking up, trying to replicate the movement that Slade's been guiding him in on his own. It's slower by himself, a little more work without Slade's hands taking some of his weight, but the slight burn of his thighs is almost good. It's not hard enough to stop him, and he manages to finish the rolling motion of it by himself, sinking back down and impaling himself again. But he doesn't get the _angle_.

He closes his eyes, bracing more of his weight on Slade's chest, focusing and trying to get it _right_ as he repeats the movement. It takes him four more tries, each time getting a little easier, a little more familiar, before he manages to duplicate the exact angle that Slade had to press Slade up against his prostate and slide against it, lighting that pleasure deep in the pit of his stomach. He gasps, his back arching a bit, and that knocks the angle off again but he finds it easier this time and now he _knows_ it. The repetitive rise and fall is just another way to move, just another way to rock and shift his body, and he has control of that. He _understands_ it.

"That's it," Slade says, and now there's a bit of a growl to that low voice, a bit of breathlessness. Pride _soars_ , and Slade's hands tighten on his hips, taking over the rock of motion and making it just a bit faster, a bit smoother. "You're doing very well, pet. See? I told you that you could do it."

He shudders, his back arching a bit more, a moan breaking free from his throat and he doesn't know if it's at the sensation or if it's Slade's praise. Either way, he lets Slade take over the movement between them, letting his eyes close as he gasps, " _Slade_."

Hands pull him down _hard_ , and he cries out at the sudden, hard filling of him. Slade is moving, one hand releasing his hip, and he forces his eyes open to figure out what's happening in time to watch Slade brace that hand against the bed and push up, curving his torso to be mostly sitting up. Angled backwards, needing the support of that single hand, but closer to him. Close enough that the other hand can come off of his hip and curl around his back, splaying between his shoulder blades and pulling him forward into a kiss.

His hips grind down as Slade takes his mouth, and he clutches at the thickness of Slade's upper arms to ground himself. The touch of Slade's hand at his back is firm, pressing their chests together, holding him so closely he doesn't think that he could get away even if he wanted to try. He doesn't, not even a little, not with Slade's chest rising against his in sharper breaths, not with skin hot against his and Slade so _deep_ inside of him.

 _Deep enough there's no room for anyone else_ , he remembers, and knows that it's true. _Needs_ it to be true.

"Slade," he begs, as soon as he has the room. "Please, _please_. Deeper; _more_."

He can feel the small shudder that takes Slade, hear how Slade's breath catches. Then the hand on his back slides down, rests in the small of it, and Slade says, " _Take_ it, pet. _Move_."

His own breath catches, and he tightens his grip on Slade's arms, pulling his weight up and then dropping down. The angle is different, Slade's heat pressed closer and close enough for them to brush as he moves. His thighs burn as he works at it, as he establishes his rhythm and drives himself according to it, but the pleasure outweighs the burn of the exertion. Then, suddenly, Slade is rocking up into him, meeting him at every downwards fall with powerful thrusts, and he can't help but cry out for it, arching hard enough to press them together even as he forces himself to keep moving, to _keep_ that rhythm as well as he can. He can feel the release he's chasing, knows he can't stop now, knows he _needs_ this.

He lowers his head, pressing it against Slade's shoulder and taking in panting breaths that smell of sweat and what _must_ be sex, musky and intense in his nose. He keeps himself pressed there as he rolls his hips.

Slade's mouth finds his throat, wet and hot against his skin, teeth grazing over it in a way that sends sparks down his spine. He can't help but moan into Slade's shoulder, clinging tighter as he draws tight as well, as he shoves himself down and tries to get just that last little bit of sensation, just a little _more_. And then Slade is biting into his neck, hard enough that it hurts, hard enough that he gasps on automatic, and he drops _hard_ down and that's it.

He arches, throwing his head back as he cries out, the orgasm hitting him harder than any he can remember having before. He's shaking, his breath coming in hard gasps, muscle drawn tight in the strain of it.

Then it comes loose, and he falls forward onto Slade. Still trembling, still _buzzing_ with the pleasure scattered under his skin, his hands loose on Slade's arms and his face all but buried against sweat-dampened skin. He just needs a few seconds to recover, a little bit of time to get his breath back and stop himself shaking.

Slade's mouth comes away from his neck, and he can feel the hard exhale against his skin, can feel how Slade tenses for a moment before relaxing, can feel… Can feel Slade, still hard inside him. He shudders, and Slade's lips are pressing just below his ear, hand sliding up his back to rest between his shoulder blades.

He drags in as deep a breath as he can manage, squeezing Slade's arms and asking, his voice unexpectedly rough, "What do I do?"

The way Slade's breath catches makes him shiver. "Do you want to finish me off, pet?" Slade asks, and his voice is low and nearly a growl.

" _Yes_ ," he breathes, shifting and then giving a soft gasp at how Slade shifts inside him as well. "Tell me how; I want to."

Slade's hand presses harder against his back for a moment, crushing him close, before easing. It slides around, pressing against his shoulder and pushing him back an inch as Slade leans back, lying back down on the bed. "Ride me," Slade orders, single eye narrowed and heated. "Just like you were. Do it for me, pet."

Both hands come to clasp around his hips, and he lets them guide him into the first lift, as he braces his hands against Slade's chest. A breathy cry escapes him when he pushes back down, his back arching at the feeling, at the almost-too-much pleasure of it, nearly bordering on pain. Slade's grip is a suggestion, pulling him into lifting but letting him set the pace, letting him move under his own power. His thighs are _burning_ now, and he digs his nails into Slade's chest and grits his teeth, pushing himself to keep going even as sweat starts to drip down his nose, even as his body protests.

For _Slade_. For his _master_.

Slade's hands slide to his thighs, fingers digging into them and helping him to lift. When he forces his eyes open and looks down, Slade's expression is drawing tight with strain, mouth parted as he breathes more sharply, harder. It pushes him to quicken the pace, to try and clench down so the drag of Slade in and out of him is more noticeable and _must_ feel better. By how Slade gasps a breath out of rhythm, hands tightening to be nearly bruising for a moment, he has to be right.

Slade gives a deep groan, shoulders curling off the bed even against the pressure of his hands, and then he's _yanked_ down into Slade's lap. He startles, crying out. The hands on his thighs are tight enough to hurt, and he can feel Slade twitch within him, feel the—

His back arches again, head falling back, at a hot rush of _wetness_ inside him. He gasps his surprise, but only has a moment to process it before one of Slade's hands is letting go of his thigh, wrapping around the back of his neck, and dragging him down. His hands slip off Slade's chest, hitting the bed instead, and Slade's mouth is against his. Hard, teeth digging into his lip before the hand on his neck grips a handful of his hair and twists him to a better angle to allow Slade to claim him more thoroughly.

By the time Slade lets him breathe again he's slightly dizzy, and it takes him a couple hard breaths to stabilize and remember that there's a world outside of Slade's kiss. By that point Slade is easing him up and his breath catches as his thighs cramp a bit at the last rise, distracting him from the odd sensation of Slade slipping free of him. He gives a soft hiss as Slade guides him to lie down, slowly stretching his legs out and hiding his wince in the sheets. At least until Slade is lifting his head, fingers gentle on his chin. A look at his face, a glance downwards, and Slade lets his head lower again, fingers slipping away. A hand presses him onto his stomach, and then strong fingers dig into the back of his thigh.

He groans, partly in surprise, and it _hurts_ but— but the muscle is loosening beneath the determined press of Slade's fingers and the cramp is easing. He gives a deeper groan, his eyelids fluttering shut as Slade's hands shift to his other thigh and do the same thing. That one takes a little bit more work, and he has to take a slow breath in to weather the pain of it, but then it's easing too and Slade is sliding a hand up his back, all the way to where it curls through his hair and strokes across his scalp.

"Better?" Slade murmurs, and he turns his head far enough that he can give a tired nod. Slade chuckles, before the fingers in his hair lightly tug. "Come up here, pet."

It takes some effort, but he manages to lift himself from the bed and follow Slade's urging towards the headboard, where Slade draws him into an easy embrace leaning back against it, his head drawn to Slade's chest and both their legs outstretched. He takes a deep breath, pressing closer and enjoying the solid weight of Slade's arm around his shoulders, fingers stroking at his upper arm.

Slade's voice is soft when he praises, "You were beautiful."

He smiles, and easy, relaxed pleasure lets him slide a hand across Slade's stomach and wrap it around his ribs without thought of possible consequences. "Thank you," he offers in return, saying the words into Slade's collarbone. "For— For all of it."

"It's what you needed." Slade's lips press to the top of his head, free hand cupping his jaw and tilting it up after a moment, until his gaze meets Slade's. "I'll always give you what you need, Apprentice. And, in that vein, there are a few questions I need you to answer now. Can you?" He nods, and Slade's thumb strokes across his cheek in reward. "Good. Now, the boy. The new Robin." His jaw clenches down, anger not as sharp as it was but still _there_. "Do you want him dead?"

The question stills him, makes him remember that Slade is a mercenary and an assassin, and if he says yes… It could happen. It _will_ happen. He could rip his replacement out of a suit that never belonged to him; he could fix at least that part of the injustice. But… But he's not sure…

"I don't know," he admits, and there's no judgment in Slade's gaze, only a calm steadiness. "I want— I want _answers_." He shivers, and Slade's hand squeezes his arm, pulling him a little bit closer. "I don't know how to get them."

Slade leans down, and he accepts the brief kiss, the brush of lips that's more a comfort than anything else. "I do," Slade promises, voice gone a little lower, a little harder. "We'll start with the boy. You can meet him, judge him, and make a decision about him. After that, we'll move on whoever else you want to."

"Is it that simple?"

Slade's fingers trace the curve of his jaw. "It won't be simple," Slade murmurs, "but whatever closure you need, I'll make sure you get. That's a promise."

He gives a small nod, takes a slightly shaky breath, and asks, "When?"

The answer of, "You're ready," isn't what he's expecting, and his eyes widen a bit as Slade's mouth curls in a small smile. "A little more work with the guns, and you'll be just about as good as I can make you without bringing in other trainers. As soon as I'm satisfied with your marksmanship, we can start planning this. After that… there won't be any need to hide anymore. They'll all know that you're mine."

He's the one to lean up this time, to catch Slade's mouth in a warm kiss. He lingers a few moments, before he draws away just far enough to say, "Thank you, Master."


End file.
